


Kalos kagathos

by bipalium



Series: Dangerous [1]
Category: Depeche Mode
Genre: BDSM, Emotional Hurt, Excessive Drinking, Group Sex, M/M, Mutual misunderstanding and estrangement, Years of Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-04 14:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15842787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bipalium/pseuds/bipalium
Summary: Alan didn’t know why he wanted him so much, all these years. Perhaps it was the unknown taste of the forbidden fruit. Perhaps - the wall Martin had built between them that Alan was only occasionally allowed to peek over, and what he saw was promising to be beautiful and extraordinary. He wanted what he couldn’t get, and this yearning had no release.





	1. Work all of my days for this kind of praise

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction written for fun. Some of the actual events were taken without accuracy.

Everyone seemed to be pleased with their find. The audition went surprisingly well – Alan half-expected critique of his performance, although he was confident in it, but Dave, the lead singer as he guessed by the bloke’s deep voice, looked eager to take him in after just a few accords. He stared at Alan like he’d just seen the best thing in the world.

“Ever played in a pop band?”

He lay a hand on Alan’s shoulder, smiling from one big ear to another.

Contrary to Alan’s expectations (they had to have several sessions with him, didn’t they?), the admission was immediate: three lads exchanged glances right in front of him and Andy – having claimed to be their manager – shook Alan’s hand with a boyish grin.

Next morning (or what Alan considered a morning, groaning and stretching his arm to the ringing phone at bloody 9 o’clock) he was promptly invited to the studio. The one calling him was Dave who, judging by frequent yawns from the receiver, wasn’t an early riser himself.

On his way out, Jeri stopped Alan to attack his sense of fashion, stroking some gel into his messy hair and pestering him to change his crumpled T-shirt. Alan cared not, although he did linger in the doorway to kiss the frown away from her face.  

“They must be called Depeche Mode for a reason, honey,” she muttered as Alan beamed at her and ran off the staircase.

To say Alan was excited was a big understatement. The band looked for a mere tour keyboardist, but they didn’t know yet what he could offer them.

Upon his arrival at about noon, the boys were lounging with beers, and Dave handed him a bottle as Alan was one foot into the room.  

“In fact, we don’t have much to do today,” Andy said, diplomatically sipping on his drink.

“Uh-huh. I don’t think we have much work left for you,” Dave added. “But if you want to play some, why not?”

Martin, who hadn’t spoken to Alan yet and not much at all in his presence, turned in a chair, away from the synthesizer his black-nailed fingers had been fiddling with.

“We’re looking forward to what you have to show,” he said in a quiet, calm voice. He was wearing makeup, only this much but enough to throw Alan off the rail. No, it wasn’t the makeup, or overall flamboyant appearance of the bloke. His eyes lingered at Alan for a moment, oozing something that put him at unease.  

A few beers later Alan was playing a part of _Satellite_ and the group agreed on moving to a bar.

Rain drizzle made his tipsiness evaporate. Passing by a glass-walled office centre, Alan noticed how his clothes didn’t match at all what the boys were wearing. He had a nice purple leather blazer somewhere in the ceiling cabinet, now it could come in handy.

Drinking was something Alan was as confident in as in his keyboard skill, so he started off with scotch on the rocks. Observing the others was good fun. Not before long, Andy (who had asked Alan in unsteady voice to call him Fletch like the chaps did) drooped his eyes and lowered his head on his crossed arms, peering blankly to the wall. Such a lightweight despite his spectacular height. Dave was going on and on about their past gigs, ‘good old days’ in Basildon, his plans for the future, his tastes in girls and even his favorite sex positions. Martin kept silent for a while, sipping on his Jägermeister and then announced that he was bored to death and was going to dance.

“What does he do?” Alan asked Dave, nodding at Martin who didn’t look happy being surrounded by a group of chirping girls on the dance floor.

Dave chuckled. Took a sip of his drink. As he slouched, his nose practically brushed Alan’s cheek.

“Fletch likes to think that he’s the heart and soul of the band,” Dave whispered, side-glancing at the snoring Andy. “Truth be told, it’s Martin.”

Alan regarded Dave with an incredulous look.

“Don’t tell me you sing and these two blokes just loiter around calling themselves _the heart and soul of the band_.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” The corners of Dave’s eyes wrinkled as he laughed. He didn’t lack charisma, his smile could take off guard and Alan was captivated by its radiance for a long moment. Dave winked at him and tipped his glass closer.

“Already falling for my charms?” He wiggled his brow which made Alan burst out laughing so hard he startled Andy.   

They made it to the restroom before Dave shed light on Martin’s role in the band. 

“All that lyrics business fell on his shoulders after Vince left.” Dave zipped up and swayed to the sink. “Neither me nor Fletch know shit about poetry, but Martin’s stuff... Mate, he’s bloody brilliant. No idea how he pulls it off, but I’m always amazed when he brings a new song to the studio.”

Alan leaned to the tiled wall, washing his hands and watching their reflections as Dave walked up to him and smoothened a few astray bangs from his forehead, much like Jeri.

“Not only a party animal but a songwriter, huh. Seriously, he doesn’t seem very approachable,” Alan commented and thanked Dave, earning himself a bop on the nose.

“What?” Alan laughed, and Dave laughed back. He was pleasantly tipsy again.

“Nothing. I’m just bloody happy we have you. And Martin will be, too. He’s got a difficult personality, but once you know him you can't not love him.”

Alan liked how simple and open Dave was. Just in a few days it felt like they had been life-long friends. Fletch and Martin were more reserved, although Fletch was often the one to crack a joke and ease the tension in the studio.

“My job is to keep everyone together, really,” he said a little wistfully during a smoke break in the kitchen. “Although I know what you’re thinking: I didn’t manage to keep Vince.”

“I wasn’t thinking about that.” Alan flicked off the ashes. “Rather that you’re pretty useless when it comes to mixing.”

“What? Hey!”

Fletch bumped Alan’s shoulder, and Alan snickered.

“Well, after a few beers you’re not bad on keys. I’d say you’re actually pretty good, Andy.”

As redheads often do, Fletch turned bright red in the ears. Chuckled into his cig and coughed.

“Thanks, Alan. Really big coming from you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take it back.”

They stared at each other, Fletch with incomprehension, Alan awaiting when he’d crack up at the joke. He didn’t.  

“Where were we?” Fletch cleared his throat and picked up an empty cup. “Coffee?”

“I’d rather have a whiskey.”

“It’s barely past two, Wilder, you’re intolerable!”

A little awkward, having no music ear but doing his best, Fletch became pretty likable in Alan’s book. Like the group’s dad, he was always the first to say they worked late, first to suggest a break and bring in snacks.

The tour started with a fair success, at least by estimation of the chaps. They were quite wired at the first gig, as if not believing they could make it with the new line-up. It didn’t hurt Alan, maybe prickled his ego just a bit. Before the tour, Jeri had told him not to be frustrated if things wouldn’t work out, but soon teenage girls were approaching him with the same sparkle in their eyes as those who’d admired Martin’s dancing in the bar. Some even asked for Alan’s autograph, more and more often with each gig.

Playing on stage was fun, hanging out with the boys wasn’t bad either. All in all, Alan was enjoying himself. And anticipating the right moment to present his songs to the rest of the band.

They drank a lot between the gigs. Fletch was sticking to his elder relative role, sitting on one gin and tonic through a night, Dave was dancing as if his energy was supplied by some unflagging battery. Martin mostly drank in silence and danced when it wasn’t too crowded.

It was one of those evenings; Alan was sitting side by side with Fletch, tapping his knuckles against the counter. There were plenty of pretty girls around, many tried to invite him or Andy for a dance, but both were adamant.

“Do you have a girlfriend at home?” Alan asked after another drink. Not often, but tonight his mind was drifting off to Jeri.

“Nah.” Fletch shook his head. “Frankly, I’m good. No one’s caught my eye yet and I’m not a fan of fooling around, unlike others.”

With that, he nodded at Dave on the dance floor. The loverboy had a steady girlfriend waiting for him in London but it never stopped him from flirting with anything that breathed. Or doing borderline erotic moves around a bunch of hollering lasses, like now. Well, Alan couldn’t blame them: Dave was a handsome devil and those tight jeans made his arse worthy of the slaps it was receiving.

“I sometimes wish I was as brave as Dave.” Andy smiled into his drink. “He’s very... Oh, look! Mart's trying to beat him at his own game!”

Fletch’s voice indicated concern for his far from sobriety friend, but Alan couldn’t take his eyes off the show. As slowly as the playing _Love Will Tear Us Apart_ allowed, Martin swayed his hips through the crowd that immediately turned their attention to him. No wonder, the bloke was wearing a dress with a high slit that beat even his usual androgynous garment. Noticing him, Dave stepped aside from the girls, raising his arms and clapping to the rhythm. They exchanged long glances, and something in Martin’s rare smile was mischievous, almost dangerous. He kept looking at Dave over his shoulder, swaying up to him until his back met Dave’s chest. And like a well-oiled machine, they moved together up and down, Dave’s hands gliding on Martin’s thighs, Martin’s arms locked behind Dave’s head, fingers curling in his short hair.

Alan’s throat went dry and he moistened it with remnants of a drink.

“Hey, that was mine!” Fletch groaned.

“Sorry, mate. Grab another one, I’ll pay.”

His feet took him to the dance floor but before he was able to reach his bandmates, the song finished, thus ending the magic dance. Dave and Martin didn’t hurry to pull apart; now when they were facing each other Martin took both of Dave’s hands and swung them. Dave was smiling at him like he was something precious, and Martin’s eyes shone with a glint Alan hadn’t seen before. He stopped next to Dave and put his hands into his jeans pockets.

“You wanna dance, too?” Dave shouted over the music, squeezing Alan’s shoulder while still holding Martin’s hand.

“Yeah, got bored listening about Fletch’s escapades.”

Alan grinned and locked his eyes with Martin’s. For a split second, the enigmatic gaze lingered on him. Fire Alan witnessed in them, fire that was too sacred for him to watch and was locked away the moment Martin blinked and turned to take a drink from Andy.

Dancing with Dave was electrifying, each movement a burst of passion that Alan now felt a part of, but shaking his arse along with his, Alan couldn’t stop thinking about Martin’s eyes and that he was a stranger to their secrets.

 

*******

 

Video shoots that weren’t as exciting as touring. Alan wished he could dance along with Dave at least in them if not on stage, but he wasn’t frustrated about the production: Dave was their frontman, after all. Alan’s showtime was yet to come, so he bounced to _The Meaning of Love_ in that gaudy suit and smiled like an idiot.

“I like how it looks on the telly,” Jeri commented, stroking his dyed in red hair. “Now you fit in!”

“I guess.”

Jeri glanced at the beer bottle in his hand and took it away, replacing it with her well-manicured fingers. With a soft smile, Alan kissed them.

“Will you get me acquainted with your new friends?”

She peered at him with a devilish glint that Alan caught himself recognizing from somewhere else. From the screen, Dave’s exalted face was looking at him with the same expression.

“Maybe.”

The new album was impending like an iceberg and they all hoped for a corresponding impact. For the first time Alan walked into the studio half an hour before the assigned time, demo tapes burning his pocket. His lyrics were very unlike Martin’s or Vince Clarke’s for that matter. Honest, perhaps even blatant, they fitted the album's topic just right. Not that he cared much; the lyrics were a mere frosty topping for the sound he had on his mind for them.

Dave came in late and in a bad mood, cursing the traffic as Martin and Fletch meditated to the tape. Dan and Gareth wore subtle grins.

“Dave, belt up, will you?” Fletch interrupted his bitching. Dave opened his mouth, raised his hand, then his features went blank and, like clay under talented fingers, switched into a surprised smile.

He just stared for a moment with bright eyes and a dropped jaw. His head started to budge back and forth to the rhythm, he grasped Alan’s shoulder and laughed.

“This is bloody amazing, Al!”

If there was more room in the studio, he would’ve probably picked Alan up and spinned him around, so happy he looked. He proceeded with more coherent compliments as _The Landscape is Changing_ came to an end, succeeding in making Alan grin in sheepish content.

“A real neat piece.” He patted Alan’s back and turned to the others. “What do you think, boys?”

“Quite good.” Andy nodded, clasping his hands together.

“Mart?”

Dave looked around in confusion and shot a questioning glance at Fletch.

“He went out for a smoke, I think.”

And didn’t return till the second part of _Two Minute Warning_. He didn’t have a word to say up until all the demos were listened out and Fletch and Alan took their positions next to their respective keyboards.

Dave loved singing Alan’s songs, practicing them between the sessions even in the kitchen. Now it was empty save for the two of them; Alan was fixing up a cheese sandwich as Dave ceased his singing and stooped to him at the counter.

“It’s Fletch’s birthday this Friday,” he said in a lowered voice. “He isn’t into big gatherings but me and Martin thought it’d be a great idea to throw a small party after recording.”

Alan nodded, taking a bite of his sandwich and motioning his head to the spare one. Dave took it with a grateful smile.

“What shall I give him?” Alan asked, lighting up a cigarette to savor the snack. He took a long drag and finished it with a sip of espresso, pleased with the boost of energy in his system.

“Fletch? Well, you know. Nothing over the top. I think he’ll like anything.”

Alan snorted.

“Come on, is he your mate or mine? If I end up giving him a BDSM porno tape it’ll be on your conscience.”  

Dave swallowed and burst with his trademark warbling laughter.  

“That’s Martin’s prerogative.”

“To embarrass his lads or to educate them on pornography?”

“I’d say both.” Dave ran his hand over his mouth. Still couldn’t calm down. “I meant more like, you know, extravagant presents.”

So without much thinking, Alan picked a few albums to his taste, some he gave a quick listen in the shop and considered them worthy. Fletch didn’t seem like a bloke with peculiar interests, and it was a good chance to enlighten him.

Friday was long and draggy. Martin hadn’t showed up in the studio, saying he had some business to attend and Alan felt somehow more relaxed playing. Unlike Martin would, Dave and Andy weren’t drilling him with judging yet indifferent eyes as he was sweating his arse off and pushing his limits. Although he couldn’t complain about the hard work, he did enjoy it with every fibre of his being.

Dave had brought a banoffee pie he claimed Jo had baked, and the three of them took a break, stuffing their mouths in the kitchen.

“Nice cream,” Fletch commented around a mouthful. “And the banana body is perfect.”

As Dave showed him a thumb up, the kitchen door opened, revealing a giant bouquet of yellow roses. It was so enormous that the carrier wasn’t visible until he stepped in. Andy hurried to take his flowers from Martin, fussing and mumbling you-didn’t-have-to’s. Free of his burden, Martin winded an arm around Andy’s waist, pulling him as close as the obstacle between them allowed.

With a dreamy smile, Martin pressed his red-painted lips to Fletch’s mouth, lingering a little too long. Alan could swear he glimpsed a tip of his tongue licking off the cream from Andy’s cupid bow. Dave whistled.

“Happy birthday, mate,” Martin said, looking him in the eye with warm fondness that prickled Alan’s stomach with an icy stab. He stood up to occupy himself with taking beers from the fridge. When he looked back, Fletch was smoking with a coy grin on his face, the flowers in a vase in front of him.

 

*******

 

“Dave, is Martin... you know?”

Dave quirked an eyebrow at him over the many cocktail glasses between them. They were spending yet another hard day’s night in a bar, although the rest of the band had decided to call it a night.

“He isn’t a lass, this much I can tell you.”

Alan nudged his ribs a little stronger than a playful remark deserved but Dave took no hard feelings, giggling. 

“Does he like blokes?”

Dave made a show out of waving his hand around his face as if he was hot and winked.

“Wanna try your luck?”

“I’m serious, Dave. You saw how he kissed Fletch the other day, it didn’t look like a friendly kiss. Or,” Alan considered reminding Dave of that heated lap dance in the bar but dismissed the idea with an exasperated ‘nevermind’.

As if ripping off the mask of buoyancy, Dave knitted his brows and shook a cig out of a pack. 

“Well, he has a girlfriend. I kinda never bothered to ask. I think it’s just his style.”

“Dresses and garters, huh.”

“He looks fine in those. Oh, and if that was what made you wonder, _What’s your name?_ was entirely on Vince. None of us argued, though.”

Alan wistfully sipped on his Blue Lagoon. The work on _Construction Time Again_ was going without hindrance, he was chuffed with himself and the boys so far, even with the producers, but the tension he felt around Martin was beginning to distract him. As if Alan wasn’t at his peak performance when Martin would occasionally glance in his direction with those heavy eyes.

“If his style includes kissing his friends, I wonder why he never even speaks to me,” Alan voiced his concerns. Somehow he felt compelled to trust Dave with this much.

Peering at dancing girls in the far corner, Dave sucked on his straw. Then he turned with those open, honest eyes Alan always felt comfort in. 

“If it bothers you, why don’t you invite him for a drink and have a heart-to-heart talk about this?”

“I have a feeling he doesn’t like me.”

“Well, you’re a sarcastic arsehole 24/7, but I don’t see why Mart wouldn’t like you. He told me he was really impressed with _The Landscape is Changing_.”

“Was he?”

Dave nodded with enthusiasm. Despite himself, Alan smiled into his glass. So, personal dislike or not, Martin did regard him a worthy songwriter.

The realization hit him so hard he had to stand up and excuse himself to the bathroom to wash his face.

Could it be that Martin was worried about being replaced? Did he feel so insecure when Dave praised Alan’s demo he had to walk out and take a breath? The only way to know was to ask.

A few days later Daniel announced that the rest of the work on the album would be held in Berlin. Not only the change of place could give a new strike of inspiration; it was also a notable idea considering the amount of political subtext in the songs. Studio Two was offering next level quality of sound, so Alan was particularly eager to go and lay his hands on its equipment.

“Don’t party too much,” Jeri said and gave him a long kiss as he was standing in the corridor with his half-empty suitcase. He still hadn’t bought any remarkable clothes and planned to enlarge his wardrobe in Berlin’s boutiques. He liked Dave’s leather pants and had been dreaming of getting a pair of his own. The expenses would be high, but it was worth it. He had faith in their new album’s selling capability.

First evenings in Berlin were spent in fashionable nightclubs, getting acquainted with money-bags who were acting all friendly in that I-own-the-world-and-your-arse-too way Alan despised. But he kept smiling and drinking on their account, saying nothing and remembering everything. Fletch, Dan an Gareth were a credible negotiation force on their own.

It was a Wednesday and a small annoying hangover woke Alan up early enough to make a detour on his way to the studio. The weather was chilly much to his liking, pleasant goosebumps forming on his arms under a new leather jacket. Dirty walls with graffiti, small lonely pubs, bus stations: he took as many pictures as the film could fit.

Alan wasn’t surprised to find the studio empty at the ungodly hour of 9 o’clock, and he ran with a quick arpeggio routine to warm up his fingers. A coffee would be a nice continuation.

The kitchen was already hazed in smoke, its source sitting at the table with his curly head hovering above a small spiral notebook. Martin didn’t even flinch at Alan’s approaching, biting on the cap of his pen. A cigarette smoldered to the filter between his fingers. Alan rummaged through the cupboard and, after a moment of consideration, took out two cups.

“Coffee or tea?” he asked in a hoarse, yet unused voice and cleared his throat.

Like in trance, Martin peered in front of himself for good several moments before finally meeting Alan’s eyes. He looked like shit: pale, cheeks hollowing, makeup smudged under his eyes.

“What’s the time?”

“Half hast nine. Don’t tell me you spent the night here.”

In clipped motions, Martin set his pen aside and raked his fingers through the thick curls, pushing them away from his forehead.

“I couldn’t sleep so I came a bit earlier.”

“Coffee, then.”

The only sound then was a lulling hum of the coffee machine but Alan couldn’t call that silence uncomfortable. He couldn’t feel the usual tension between them. Maybe the lack of sleep got to Martin: in the feeble rays of bleak sunlight he looked small and vulnerable.

Setting two cups on the table, Alan dared to glance into the notebook over Martin's shoulder.

“Stuck?”

He enjoyed his coffee as Martin buried his face in his hands with a frustrated groan. Reached for another cig, his brows forming an arch of grief.

“ _Pipeline_ ,” he said. “What do you think of it?”

“Catchy.” Alan nodded.

“Not _Everything Counts_ -catchy.”

“Well, yeah. I think we should work more samples into it. And tone down the bloody horns.”

Martin’s lips tightened. His eyes were sharp but as he sighed they softened.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it, the ending feels half-baked.”

He pushed his notebook for Alan to look closer. He studied it, playing the lyrics to the tune in his head.

“I think we should just loop _Taking from the greedy, giving to the needy_ part. It works as a punchline, and the focus will be on the sound, so–”

Martin’s mouth opened as if he wanted to protest, but instead he sucked in a fat drag of smoke. A sudden itch broke in in Alan’s chest, like something he couldn’t scratch throbbed inside.

He lay a hand on top of Martin’s knuckles and gazed into his perplexed eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Alan said in a gentle voice, sounding alien to himself. His skin burned where it touched Martin’s, and at once Alan wanted to walk out of the stale kitchen and take a deep breath.

“The song’s good. And we’re a team, so anything you can’t do me, Dave and Fletch will do.”

Martin stared at him with something akin to bewilderment. When he looked away, a warm, intimate smile bloomed on his face. The itching throb plunked in Alan’s stomach, making it flip, and he squeezed Martin’s hand, aware of how sweaty his own palm had become.

A whole crowd of Dan, Gareth and Fletch entered the kitchen. all talking at once. Martin mumbled a ‘thank you’ and shifted a little farther from Alan. Breaking the contact, building the distance.


	2. So lie to me, but do it with sincerity

The Berlin wall looked less triumphant and looming the day _Construction Time Again_ was finished. They’d all been wired and exhausted, but it was worth it. They had _Everything Counts_ as the lead single, and other songs were promising to become smashing hits, especially _Love, in Itself_ and _More Than a Party_. But Alan was notably proud of _Pipeline_. Not only Martin’s voice was refreshing in contrast with Dave’s darker vocals; the sampling and mixing they made for it was what Alan could go as far as to call genius.

Days flashed in front of his eyes as their popularity was increasing: autograph sessions, photoshoots, TV and radio interviews; every other station played _Everything Counts_ and the music video could be seen daily on MTV. The swelling feeling of content and significance was making Alan's head spin, even though the magazines often mixed up their names and not once he was called Dave Gahan even by the fans begging for his autograph. Sometimes Alan played along up until girls saw _A. C. Wilder_ scribbled on LP jackets, their eyes widening in terror. It was good fun watching their embarrassment, though Alan didn’t care much whether they knew his face. What mattered was that they loved his music.

Their gigs were now attracting more people, and it was amazing to hear the crowd sing when Dave thrusted the mic out for them, cupping his ear, smiling and encouraging the fans. His endless energy was their trademark, if not for him Depeche Mode wouldn’t be as recognizable and sure wouldn’t sell packed venues. His dance moves had become more shameless too, he was enjoying himself but more than that, he was giving himself away to his fans.

“I love how they scream when I do this.” He wiggled his arse in new, particularly tight jeans in a dressing room they all shared. “Any new move ideas, Fletch?”

Andy scoffed, folding his arms and propping himself to a dresser.

“Less spinning, more thrusting? I dunno, Dave, you’re at the lead here.”

Martin was spending hours anxiously layering mascara in front of a small round mirror.

“Nervous?” Alan leaned to the toilet table, smirking.

“A bit.” Martin didn’t look up, twirling the brush. He wore a deep eyeshadow that very nicely complemented his eyes. “Have nothing better to do than getting on my nerves, Wilder?”

They exchanged short chuckles. Alan landed in a chair next to him, watching his silly open-mouthed face in the mirror.

“Can you put some makeup on me?”

A light eye shot up at him in the reflection. Martin’s lips crooked in a vicious grin.

“I thought you didn’t like when blokes look like girls.”

“Shit, so Dave handed me out. Well, let’s say I’m up to some experimenting. Maybe I wanna steal a few fans from you.”

Martin rolled his eyes.

“You can take all the chaps and I’ll keep the lasses.”

They both hollered with laughter until Martin poked his eye with the brush. He cursed, tapped his fingers around, blending the mascara with eyeshadow.

“All right,” he said, moving the mirror closer to Alan. “I’ll do it for you once, but next time you’re doing it yourself.”

“Sure, Dr. Gore. Commence the surgery.”

Rising on his feet, Martin commanded Alan to sit back and close his eyes. His cold fingers cupped his jaw, moving his face left and right. The touch was soft, almost gentle, and Alan caught himself on a thought that it was the first time Martin’s hands were on his face.

“I think grey will suit you. Complements your eyes just right.” His right hand pulled away only to reappear with a bit of pressure on his cheekbone. “Don’t squeeze your eyes shut, relax. You need to smoothen your eyelids for eyeshadow to split up evenly.”

Alan did as he was told, feeling light pats of a brush running across his eyelid. Occasional brushes of Martin’s fingerpads on his skin sent small impulses that echoed with warmth in Alan's chest. He was so comfortable he could fall asleep like that, and the notion that just some time ago Martin’s presence was unnerving him seemed like a bad old dream. Martin ran an oral manual but Alan didn’t grasp the words, lulled by his quiet voice. Not just lulled, he was enchanted.

When he finished and Alan opened his eyes, he saw Martin’s pleased smile with uneven teeth, the small wrinkles in the corners on his eyes, and it was like an epiphany, like he saw Martin Gore for the first time. His head went light, and Alan stared at him, hyper-aware of a long and strained throb his heart produced.

Oh, he was fucked.

“Told you, grey suits you!”

Martin shifted the mirror closer for Alan to look. Indeed, it was a nice shade that deepened his eyes and gave him an obscure and cool, seductive look. Alan smirked at his reflection, trying to distract himself from an odd emotion he’d just experienced.

“Holy shite, what a princess!”

Like a little hurricane, Dave burst into the his personal space, touching his face, neck, hair; smirking and laughing.

“Wanna buy me a drink?”

With amused howling, Dave grabbed Alan’s face and placed a wet kiss on his cheek. Alan tipped his chin up with theatrical arrogance.

“Mart, I want some makeup too!”

The gig went well, Alan bounced to the music more than usual trying to unleash his overflowing excitement. Having returned to the hotel room, he went straight to the telephone and picked the receiver with jittery fingers. Fletch was taking his time in the bathroom, he’d gone there with a newspaper so Alan had at least 15 minutes to make a call.

“Hello,” Jeri answered in a sleepy, irritated voice.

“Hiya, baby,” he murmured into the receiver. “Sleeping already?”

“Jesus, Al, it’s 2 o’clock,” she groaned. Something rummaged on the background. “What’s the matter? You all right?”

He fidgeted in the armchair, getting comfortable.

“No, nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice. What are you wearing?”

There was a long silence followed by a soft chuckle.

“Oh, you naughty boy. I have work in 6 hours, you know that?”

“Yeah.”

Alan smiled to the phone, feeling through the long kilometers between them that Jeri was smiling too. He didn’t call her often during the tour; in fact, he wasn’t thinking about her most of the time as his mind was occupied with gig cares, fan meetings, bar hitting, etcetera. But wasn't the yearning he felt when Martin touched his face a blatant signal that he missed her? Craved for intimacy he’d been depraved of for quite a while?

They didn’t get to talk much before Fletch returned from his crusade. Alan tossed and turned in bed, bitching about Andy’s turned on lamp – the bloke was big on late night reading and apparently the bathroom newspaper wasn’t enough to sate him – but he was in a good mood. Right, it was only logical that he was allured by Martin’s touches, for they were gentle as of a woman, and a woman was what he needed. It didn’t have to do anything with Martin himself, and that Alan wanted to kiss him so bad he could die also didn’t mean that the desire was directed at him and wasn’t a mere sign of a prolonged sexual neglect. 

The break in the tour didn’t help much: it lasted two months but even those were spent in a cluster of interviews, photoshoots, press meetings, fan meetings and whatnot. Not that it wasn’t exciting, but Alan’s hands were itching to work on new songs. 

Weeks on the road in Germany started to get to all of them. The bus heading from Bremen to Hamburg was bloody cold. Dave, who was sitting next to the window beside Alan kept shivering despite three blankets thrown on him.

“Fletch, pass me a Budweiser,” Dave groaned, reaching his hand over Alan. He’d dyed his hair in blonde streaks which made him look older and maybe more attractive, but to Alan he seemed only more bitchy. His voice had gone a bit sore after the gig in Borken and he kept acting like a baby around the others, demanding not just attention but service and an additional pat on the head.

Andy stared at him through the aisle. He was reading a book – something about football, Alan didn’t care to look closer. Martin was snoozing on his shoulder, curled into a ball in his seat. Glancing both sides, Andy answered in a comedic combination of strictness and hush:

“Sod off, Gahan. First of all, the fridge is closer to you and I'm not going there for you like a bloody waitress. I’ll wake up Mart,” he added with a shadow of a scowl.

Dave rolled his eyes, jerking himself up and holding onto the pile of blankets. Alan grabbed his wrist, getting him back down.

“You catch a cold and we’re fucked.” Alan regarded him with a glare. Certainly, they couldn’t perform without the lead singer.

“What are you, my mom?” Dave raised his voice, fighting his arm out of Alan’s firm grasp. “One cold drink won’t kill me.”

With an angry sigh, Alan shifted closer and placed a flat palm on Dave’s forehead. It was blazing hot, droplets of sweat sticking to his skin. His eyes looked red and irritated.

“You’ve got a fever, Dave. I’m serious, you shouldn’t drink. Just go sleep.”

But Dave kept arguing, Fletch kept bitching and soon they were yelling at each other and Dave jumped into the aisle to pick a fight with him. Alan didn’t interrupt, deciding to give up. He wasn’t a kindergarten nanny.

The noise awakened Martin, whose face went dark and he took off running in the direction of the bathroom. With that, the fight was forgotten and Fletch went guarding the door, begging for his mate to talk to him but the only answer was a loud sound of emptying stomach.

Martin had been acting strange since their reunion on tour. Alan had learned first hand he was difficult and antisocial up unless there was alcohol involved: then he was maniacally putting off his clothes and running around laughing and dancing until he would be caught by security and nicely asked to behave.

This time it was different. Not only he turned down all the party invitations and mostly slept in his hotel room, he didn’t talk much not only to Alan but not the more to Dave and even his best friend Andy. In several days after the tour continuation, Alan attempted to approach Martin. His careful and intricate preamble got him only the door to the nose.

Fletch had said that Martin tended to shut himself off from the world from time to time, not for long so he’d be on the mend soon. But three weeks on the road had passed and he still was a grim ghost of himself, even worse that all he drank was alcohol, although Fletch had made sure to set water cups on nightstands in their shared hotel rooms.

“Another hour and I’ll be at the same place with Mart,” Dave commented, gulping on a beer he’d just snatched. Alan clicked his tongue.

“Then cut off the bloody drinking, you tosser.”

“If you worry about the performance, I’ll be fine,” Dave assured. “I’m more worried about Mr. Gore and his drinking problem.”

Alan tapped his fingers against his cheekbone, looking at the bus’ ceiling.

“Maybe he got dumped?”

“As if we could ask him about it.” Dave snorted. His eyes narrowed and he sneezed so loudly Alan’s ears rang.

“Hey, I think you’ve had enough.”

“All right, mom.” Dave pretended to be annoyed but the wink and the smile he added at the end were so infectious that Alan smiled back.

New Year break didn’t let them rest either, for they spent most of the time in the studio working on a new single. This time it was something incredible and Alan was sure they’d take all the UK and probably European charts, because the balance between catchiness and loyalty to intelligence was acquired so well he couldn’t believe they made it just in a few days.

First day of the legendary 1984 they gathered in a restaurant to celebrate their success and cement the luck for the years to come. Alan didn’t expect the others to bring presents; he felt like a fool for not thinking about it. They were sitting around the table full of steaming dishes, Fletch showing off the knitted scarf Martin got him, Dave taking his time unwrapping a sophisticated box from Fletch.

“For you.”

Martin handed Alan a small box. It wasn’t fancy, just regular brown paper and a thin white ribbon. Alan nodded a thank you and hid the box in his inside pocket. He was embarrassed enough because of his mess up so he didn’t want to attract attention of others with whatever was in that box.

Just when he thought about it, Dave pulled a sizable bag from under the table and thrusted it into his arms.

“Thought yours was getting scruffy. Happy New Year, Al.”

Now he was being stared at. Everyone was grinning and urging him to open it, Dave nudged Alan’s ribs. Sighing, Alan peeked into the bag and his heart froze. He closed it, blinking; Dave and Fletch laughed at him.

“Come on, put it on!”

Thar was a bloody fine leather jacket if Alan ever saw one. Perfectly new, textured and rich to the touch; it had a nice belt with a silvery buckle, big comfortable pockets and when Alan tried it on the boys clapped. He posed for them, chin raised, amused grin playing on his lips. 

“A good-looking devil!” Dave looked so pleased with himself. He stood up and wrapped his arms around Alan’s shoulders, and, still stunned, Alan placed a quick kiss on his cheek.

Fletch finished the exchange presenting him a nice Zippo. Now Alan felt almost too bad.

“The dinner’s on me, go wild, boys,” he said and was regarded with buoyant whistling and hollering.

“Sure you can cover everything I can drink?” Martin chuckled.

“I will, but only if you strip here.”

They did drink a lot that night. In fact, the restaurant manager had to force them out because it was long past the closing time. The streets were deserted since it was a holiday and people rested at home while the four shitfaced blokes staggered down the street, taking up the whole pavement width as their arms wrapped around each one’s shoulders. Alan was practically hanged between Dave and Martin, having to reach for his beer bottle with his mouth over Dave’s face. Martin, whose clothes were still intact – must’ve been the winter – compensated by yelling Bobby Troup’s _Route 66_ and the others joined in.

It was so late it was early when Alan stumbled into his flat and collapsed on the bed without taking off his clothes and shoes. What felt like a moment later, he woke up from someone shaking him.

“Jeri?” he groaned, opening his eyes. She was bending over and glaring at him and for the first time Alan regretted he’d given her the keys.

“Come on, move your arse,” she commanded, slapping his rear. “It’s way past afternoon.”

His stomach twisted, making him hurry to the bathroom and yank his face to the toilet. His head was splitting in half when he finished; he took off the new jacket and dumped it into the a laundry hamper along with the rest of his clothes.

Having showered and brushed his teeth, he dragged himself to the kitchen that smelled like homemade food. Mouth watering after having thrown up the entire dinner from the restaurant, he thought better of Jeri’s invading his home. He assaulted the steaming curry, ravishing it like he hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks.

Jeri was smoking in silence until he finished. Then, she placed a small brown box onto the table. Her eyes were drilling Alan’s.

“Can you explain this?” she asked in a cold, detached tone.

Well, that was the present from Martin he didn’t bother to open at the party. He shifted his eyes from the box back to Jeri. She looked genuinely mad.

“Martin got me this,” he said, picking up a cigarette.

“Oh, so that’s what you do with your friend Martin.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

Jeri thrusted the box closer to him and stood up.

“Open it.”

Not a little confused, Alan did as he was told. It took him some time to unwrap the box. Inside lay a pair of silver handcuffs on a velvet cushion.

“So, what do you have to say?”

His head was floating but he recovered in a flash. He could play it off, piece a cake.

“Too bad you found it before I showed you. It was a surprise. Me and Mart discussed, well, preferences. He told me about a fantasy involving cuffed hands. You see, they open here,” he took a small key and pressed it into the lock, “and go here.”

Alan took Jeri’s hand, gently pulling her closer. The handcuff closed around her wrist. A victorious smirk popped on Alan’s face and he gazed at her from below.

“It can be vice versa, if you prefer.”

Of course Jeri chose the latter.

When she fell asleep, having freed him from the steel grip (his wrists went absolutely sore but it was an interesting sensation), Alan made a beeline to the living room. For the first time, he dialed Gore household.

“Hello, whatever bastard’s calling,” Martin’s sleepy voice came in the receiver after good three minutes of waiting.

“That's rich from you.” Alan snorted. “What did you mean by the bloody handcuffs? My girlfriend found them and freaked out.”

Martin yawned and made a content hum.

“Did she like it?”

“Listen, not everyone is a bloody pervert like you. You can’t walk around giving people you barely know something like fucking BDSM tools.”

“Barely know?”

Heavy silence spread between them from one end of London to another. Alan heard Martin’s steady breaths; his chest shrunk as he replayed his own words in his mind.

“All right, I thought you’d take it with a grain of irony like you always do. It was meant to be an accessory worn on stage, but you can throw them the fuck away if you don’t like them.”

That said, Martin hang up on him and the screeching ring of the receiver hitting the telephone vibrated in Alan’s ears for a while after. What he felt wasn’t guilt; he’d rather take a bus to Gore’s flat and beat his rude arse up, but at the same time the feeling that he’d made a mistake hovered above him like a guillotine.        

Well, at least he didn’t have to talk to the perverted wanker till February.

 

*******

 

“To _People Are People_!”

Four glasses clinked, four blokes shouting and gulping their drinks. Not often they celebrated good gigs in a hotel room, but tonight Dave had proposed to stay in and get pissed drunk in his room.

Alan had never heard such loud screams as the moment they started playing their new song. The one-off was the last part of the tour leg and all he wanted was to get back to the studio. He’d already had a nice demo to show to the boys, and the foretaste of polishing it into perfection was giving him goosebumps.

Without taking a break, Dave stood up and, pouring himself another whiskey, raised his glass.

“Martin,” he said with a wide grin, turning to the lad. Martin didn’t meet his eye, fingering a straw in his vermouth, mouth pouting, brows knitted in that ever-present mask of laboured suffering.

“I know you don’t like being praised in public, but I guess it’s fine in a small circle of close mates. You know I love your songs. Hell, we all do. But this one in particular–”

Martin opened his mouth with a barely-there eye-roll, but Dave grabbed his shoulder, beaming at him.

“No, no, no, no, you listen to me, mate.”

“Come on, Mart!”

Andy shifted closer to him on the couch, wrapping an arm around him and smiling. Martin stared at his shoes.

“So, where was I. Yeah, _People Are People_. All you do for us is bloody amazing, but this song? Fucking piece of art if you ask me.”

“Dave–”

He wouldn’t have it, raising his index finger at Martin who, despite his protests, couldn’t contain a grin now. Alan emptied his glass, shouldering the doorframe.

“I think everyone agrees that this one’s to Mart!” Dave raised his glass, and while Alan and Fletch were renewing theirs, clinked his with Martin’s. “To you, big boy. Keep it up.”

After five more drinks Martin seemed to forget his shyness, clothes coming off as he blasted the music and assaulted Fletch for a piggyback ride. Dave tempted Alan for a dance, laughing into his face as Alan picked up a rose and placed it between his teeth.    

“May I have a dance, darling?” Alan winked, reaching out his hand. Dave giggled like a girl, splashing his hands before taking Alan’s offer. Alan spun him in what came out nothing like the tango Alan was aiming for: it would’ve killed Dave not to shake his arse for once. But it was great fun, and soon Fletch became Alan’s partner for a very chopped and short dance.

“Mart, cover up for me!” Andy cried out, out of breath.

With a swooping motion, Alan let him go and gave a hand to Martin who had been running a strip-tease session along with Dave on the table. He only had his underpants, garters and gloves on, and took Alan’s hand with as much grace as his shitfaced state allowed.

Without much thinking, Alan placed a kiss to his leather-covered knuckles, bowing a little. Martin fanned his face, smirking.

Alan didn’t know what was so different from dancing with Dave or Andy, but every motion felt flowing, intact, natural: Martin’s body against his was as good as if they were one, and as if neither of them was drunk. Not just that; he smelled good and Alan could feel his heavy breath on his own face and they swayed in rumba-like motions. Feeling brave, he picked Martin up and rolled him over his back.

“Now, now, it’s getting too hot in here!”

Both Dave and Andy were clapping from the couch, gazing at them with awe in their eyes. Alan’s cheeks burned as he caught a smile from Martin, who continued the swing ending up stumbling to the floor. Dave laughed hysterically and Fletch rushed to pick him up.

“Hold on, I’m not finished!” Martin protested as Andy stood him upright, glaring. “You wanna join in?”

He didn’t wait for an answer from Fletch, wrapping his arms around him and clinging to his neck.

All four of them danced till Martin passed out and Fletch ran off to the bathroom. Dave plopped down the couch and Alan followed him suit, both panting and grinning from ear to ear.

“With some practice you can take my place on stage, you know.” Dave wrapped an arm around Alan’s shoulders, eyes glinting. Sweat was dripping from his hair but he looked like he could go on and on till the dawn broke.

“Nah, nobody can beat you at this.”

“Even if you come out with Mart?”

Alan made a darting look at the wasted bloke lying at their feet on the floor.

“You never see from your spot but from mine it’s very noticeable how he shakes on stage,” Alan mused and lit up a cig.

“Oh no, I hope he won’t faint during your dance!”

They both laughed but Alan didn’t feel like talking about that anymore. Some jokes would go too far with Dave, and just as he was about to add something, Alan snuggled to him to speak closer to his ear.

“You know, your toast made me think about something. Martin’s songs are good, but haven’t you thought of writing your own stuff? Maybe you could try yourself out in lyrics for the new album.”

Dave waved his hand, hugging Alan with one arm and pulling him closer onto himself. It felt surprisingly nice, and Alan buried his face in the crook of his neck, realizing how sleepy he was.

“I don’t think I can match up to him. He’s too good.”

“You’re underestimating yourself.”

“Nah. Believe me, Al, I tried. I’m no good at this. I’d rather sing Martin’s songs, it’s like... like the feelings he puts into them become mine when I sing them. You understand?”

Alan scoffed, pulling away from Dave and picking up a beer bottle more out of habit than of an urge to drink.

“Is that what you think or what Martin told you?”

For a moment there was a crease of confusion in Dave’s forehead, but then the usual smile took over.

“It doesn’t matter. You see, he’s a tough nut to crack, and only Fletch knows the way with him, but when I sing what he writes it’s almost like I understand him. And I think it’s beautiful.”

Glancing at Martin who groaned and rolled over to his back, Alan chuckled without amusement.

“Yeah, yeah, what a beautiful soul. I’m stunned.”

“Al.”

“Let’s go check on Fletch. I hope he didn’t die there.”

The end of the tour didn’t feel real, no matter how Alan had been wanting to get back. It appeared all of them were rather reluctant to leave Germany; _Construction Time Again_ was too bound to it and so the boys found that peculiar connection that left them wanting to prolong the presence there. Not to mention the row of hungry interviewers waiting to disclose them to the masses.

Daniel agreed to provide them more time in Berlin, along with some luxury suite rooms. At least that was what Alan heard from Fletch on the bus tour around the city.

“It has a bar with everything you’ve ever wanted,” Andy spoke to his ear over the guide’s monotonous German, “and two king-sized beds! Dave said he wanted to join them and make a giant fuckodrome.”

Alan snorted into his beer.

“So he’s staying with you? Cheating on me, huh, bastard?” He turned at Dave, who had a plastered grin on his face and had tactically covered his eyes with shades.

“Don’t worry, you’re always welcome to Father Dave’s Fuckodrome.” He laughed, and Martin choked on a soda by his side.

Recording the swapping landscape of the city, Alan was deep in ponder. Sure, Dave was all friendly with him most of the time, and given that Fletch and Martin apparently lived in their own world, he did regard Alan as his closest pal in the band. Was that change of a roommate caused by Alan’s pushy questions the other day? Something was telling him it would only make it worse if he asked.

Above all, he wasn’t looking forward to share a room with Martin. Alan still remembered the handcuffs incident, and even though he didn’t exactly hold a grudge against him, he could tell that Martin tried to avoid him whenever they all weren’t out drinking. The heated hotel room dance emerged in his memory for a moment. Or was he just imagining things?

He was exhausted in a good way after the ride, and getting into the room seemed like heaven, whoever he was to share it with. Alan stepped into the hall and, as Martin headed straight to the bathroom behind him, stared at the interior with wide-open eyes.

The suite was adorned in marble and had roman-styled columns next to the windows. It was light, spacey; the bar looked welcoming just as Fletch had promised. Alan turned at the doorframe and froze. In the next room, bathed in bronze rays of the setting sun, stood a glib, grandiose piano.

He walked up to it, holding down his breath. The keys shone in the sun, welcoming a touch, and Alan seated himself in front of the piano. His fingers lay on the keys and like the outside world was forgotten, he started playing a tune that flowed from his mind without any effort. Alan closed his eyes, feeling a soft breeze touching his face through the opened window.

The air shifted around him, announcing an unobtrusive presence. And then, a gentle voice sounded, mingling with the tune like they were meant to be together.

“ _I want somebody to share_

_Share the rest of my life_

_Share my innermost thoughts_

_Know my intimate details_ ”

Opening his eyes, Alan saw Martin standing right next to him wearing nothing but a towel, leaning to the lid and gazing up to the framed rectangle of sky. His light eyes had a deep, anxious look to them, but his voice was smooth, almost dreamy. Alan couldn’t stop playing, his heart oozing tenderness at the beautiful words spilling from Martin’s mouth. Their eyes met, and the corner of Martin’s lips quirked in a radiant smile. He didn’t cease singing, now gazing at Alan with a soft, intimate look, like the song was only for him and nobody else. 

“ _But when I'm asleep_

_I want somebody_

_Who will put their arms around me_

_And kiss me tenderly_ ”

He finished, and Alan stroked the keys for a while, dazed by what had just happened. They exchanged glances, and without a word jumped up and ran off to their suitcases.

“It was here, I remember putting it here,” Alan mumbled to himself, rummaging through his luggage, scattering the clothes all around.

“Found it!”

With a victorious grin, Martin held up a recorder. Nodding, Alan rushed back to the piano, replaying the tune in his head so not to forget it.

They recorded a demo Martin named _Somebody_ and it sounded even better than the first time. Alan was so happy he invaded the bar and popped a champagne bottle.

“We should keep it this way,” he said, handing Martin a filled glass. “Just the piano, and your vocals. It's going to be something amazing.”

“Jesus, I hope it won’t be on the setlist.”

“What? Jokes on you, you will come to the front and sing it. Or, if you feel more comfortable this way, you can stand next to me while I’m playing.”

Martin fidgeted on the bed, finishing his drink in one long gulp and handing the glass to Alan for renewal.

“Maybe it’ll be better if Dave sings it? I’m not sure that–”

Alan took the bottle and both glasses, joining Martin on the bed. Placed a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed it.

“Listen, _I’m_ sure that it will be a hit. Just believe me, all right?”

He didn’t notice when they finished the bottle and swapped to heavier drinks, not before long lying in bed with their heads to the footboard, a bottle of Jim Beam resting between them.

“Oh, that was a really wacky one!” Alan laughed. “I saw that magazine in a newsagent’s and they picked the worst shots. You weren’t looking at the camera once!”

“I don’t like cameras. They don’t depict what’s true.”

“Oh, cut that bollocks. Cameras are great. Democratic. They give everyone an opportunity to snap a moment into history.”

With that, Alan grabbed his camera from the floor and shifted closer to Martin, outstretching his arm so they both could fit in the shot.

“Say cheese, twat,” he commanded, grinning with his teeth. Martin giggled, trying to hide his face but instead bumping his forehead with Alan’s.

They chatted till it was so dark Alan could only see the silver outline of Martin’s almost naked body. The Jim Beam was doing its job. Martin smelled so nice. His hair looked soft and without second thought Alan plunged his hand into it, rubbing and stroking. Mid-saying how humor was Hermann Hesse’s idea of resolving existential crisis, Martin leaned into his touch and groaned.

“Fuck, that’s just what I needed. Can you rub a little lower? Ahh, this is bloody brilliant.”

It was unbelievable. Alan’s skin burned where Martin’s body was pressing into his, just slightly and so naturally like it belonged by his side. He was smiling with his eyes closed, making noises akin to a purring cat, and up close the relaxed features of his face were so familiar and suddenly dear that Alan couldn’t stop staring at him, as if trying to imprint them to the depth of his memory. The curve of his perpetually sad eyebrows, his full lips in a lenient arch, his textured skin with a couple of astray moles – no, the camera couldn’t capture that enchanting beauty in the night.

Holding down his breath, Alan shifted lower and their noses almost brushed against each other.

“Say, Al,” Martin murmured, “how do you write your songs?”

“What do you mean, how?”

He glided his hand from Martin’s hair to the back of his neck that arched under his touch.

“When I write, I don’t think much, don’t search for the words. It’s more like, they find me. And I’m–”

Martin went silent, and Alan kept massaging his neck, gazing at his sorrowful face bathed in moonlight.

“I’m afraid that one day this gift will be taken away, and I don’t know how to do it on my own.”

Like one morning in Studio Two, what felt like a century ago, he looked fragile, as if having shed the facade of constant impenetrability, letting Alan peek under his shell. Heart racing, Alan wrapped his arms around him and before he knew what he was doing, placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. He froze, afraid of his own actions and the feelings behind them throbbing somewhere on the rim of his mind. But no revolt followed, and Alan's body felt numb as he felt Martin clinging to his chest, hugging him back.

“I don’t care much about the lyrics,” he whispered, trying to get his mind occupied by something that wasn’t the heat of Martin’s body. “To me, they should fit the mood of the song and go well with the sound, that’s it. I guess we have different opinions on the matter, but as long as something comes out of it, it’s all good. Although I’ve noticed you’re really big on that ‘understand me’ thing.”

Alan craned his neck to look Martin in the eye, licked his lips, fighting with an immense urge to close the tiny distance between them and kiss him till they both were out of breath.

“I take my business seriously.” Martin snickered and without much force freed from Alan’s hold, rising on an elbow. He took the bottle and shook it, clicking his tongue.

Alan tucked his arms under his head, not knowing what to do with his hands. He heard Martin walking up to the bar and messing with the glasses, then there was a quiet door creak. Letting out a breath, Alan sat up in crystal sobriety.

Now he had no doubts he was doomed. He held his bandmate who wasn’t even his close friend, hell, wanted to kiss him, and if it happened he wouldn’t be able to stop. Running his hand across his face, Alan tried to think of Jeri but only saw her judging glare in his memory: _Oh, so that’s what you do with your friend Martin._

The bar was truly a blessing, and Alan emptied several shots into his mouth, hoping that he’d pass out before Martin would be back. The marble room swayed a little as he walked back and picked up a magazine from a nightstand. Letters danced in front of his eyes along with provocative photos of models who laughed at him from the glossy pages.

_Fallen for a friend? Here are five easy steps to..._

_How to make any man crave for..._

_Find a way to his heart through his..._

Shit, what was he wasting time for? She’d never know. Nobody would know, ever. Alan cupped his mouth, smelling his breath. Glanced into the mirror and fixed his messy hair. Unbuttoned his shirt down to his pecs. Lay down and crossed his legs, waiting.

The sun burned his face without mercy, frying him and covering in sweat. Alan groaned and woke up, stiff from the uncomfortable position he slept in.

Of course his head was killing him. An empty bottle nudged his side and a recollection of last night hit him like a splash of icy water across his face. Alan sat up, looking around: Martin wasn’t anywhere in the room. Why hasn’t it crossed his mind that when he left he went to the other bed in the joined room with the piano? Where did he get that stupid idea that Martin would like to return?

Sore and bound with leaden anxiety, Alan strolled around the room. Not that he was afraid to leave it, but–

The door opened before he had a chance to– to do anything, he hadn’t even been to the bathroom yet, let alone his wrinkled clothes and disastrous hair. Martin’s head popped in the doorframe: all perfect makeup and a pristine-looking hat.

“You’re late,” he stated rather blankly. “We’re going shopping. You coming?”


	3. It's a question of lust, it's a question of trust

“And the chains go... here.”

“Ouch! These are gonna leave bruises, you know?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with you.”

“Ah, Mart, it’s my first time, please don’t be rough!”

Laughing hysterically, Dave stumbled to the floor, dragging Martin along with him. The fall only tangled the chains more, and they were both trying to kick out of the mess, giggling and panting. All the same, Dave held himself gracefully even in this compromising position with his face pressing against Martin’s arse.

“Shouldn’t we film it like this? I bet girls are going to love it.”

Fletch made a small chuckle over his cigarette. As much as it was fun, Alan was getting tired of the lads’ sandbox play. He walked over to the dressing table and picked one of the beers he wasn’t sure belonged to him. Who cared anyway.

The part with him being dragged on the floor while clinging to Fletch’s legs made his head spin a little. The director had some outdoor shooting planned as well, and Alan hoped they wouldn’t do it today.

The jingling sound approached him from behind and, before he could turn, a chain was thrown around his middle, followed by a strong pull.

“No slacking off yet.” Martin chuckled to his ear, his heavy breath lingering on Alan’s skin for a short moment. He tugged on the chain and let it go, leaving Alan not a little bewildered.

“Why do we have to be the servants though? I think you and Fletch are better cut for this role.”

“Excuse me?”

Brow arching, Fletch gave Alan an icy look. It was annoying how often he didn’t get jokes.

But Martin was fast to distract him, jumping to his back and humorously strangling him with a chain. The champ was clearly in his element. All that BDSM attire was exсiting him a little bit too much, although Dave didn’t lag behind, making a dirty joke out of every little thing.

Alan didn’t realize he’d been too fixed on Martin riding the struggling Fletch as something soft was pushed into his mouth.

“Eat up, good boy,” Dave giggled, pushing the banana deeper and Alan had mere seconds to chew before he would’ve gagged.

“Whaws fuwwy,” he grunted past the mouthful. Dave withdrew the banana and took a bite, grinning over the tip.

“Ah, man. Just imagine the reception of this one.”

Performing the dance moves proved the class they’d taken pretty unworthy. Although Fletch was glad they didn’t have to do anything complicated.

With the filming ended, the blokes went on a celebration spree, visiting every other bar they ran into. Dave started stripping on the counter when they were asked to leave, and it was long past midnight when the four of them ended up in a deserted yard. The fact that they occupied the playground had the most ironic correlation with Alan’s preceding thought; Andy on the seesaw with Dave rocking him a little too hard and Martin on a merry-go-round, beckoning Alan to give him a turn.  

“You’ll throw up, twat!” Alan laughed and pulled on the rail without mercy.

To no surprise, the one who threw up first was Fletch. That gave him a certain aura of serenity as he curled up in a sandbox, looking as peaceful as if he was sunbathing on a private beach.

“Come on, Fletch, it’s your turn to swing me!”

Dave clung to him to no avail, tickling his stomach but eliciting no response besides semi-angry grumbling. Alan emptied yet another bottle of wine and dropped it into the nearest rubbish bin.

Even after that unholy amount of alcohol he still wasn’t in the mood for fooling around.

Something hadn’t been right. They were fairly popular, hell, he had the perfect amount of work and was free to conduct any artistic expression, at least that the band approved of. He’d been earning enough to soon afford a new place, maybe move in with Jeri. Except for, every other night she stayed, he felt like being strangled. They almost never went without handcuffs or other restraints these days for Alan couldn’t get off without them anymore. And the worst was the image he would spontaneously get whenever he closed his eyes in the process.

“We should take Andy home.”

Martin leaned on the seesaw Alan was sitting in, invading his personal space with a strong reek of whiskey he still held in his hand.

“Just call him a cab.”

He nodded, taking a sip and handing the bottle to Alan. Martin’s lips were moist with the liquor and he darted his tongue across them. Alan sighed, looking away.

“You look particularly brassed off tonight, Wilder. Something’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” he said, _except your bloody face and the thought how good it’d feel to ravish your darned mouth_ , he didn’t say. 

“I like how _Master and Servant_ is coming out,” Martin mused with a bright grin on his face.

“Why am I not surprised? Pervert.”

“Aren’t we all perverts, deep inside?”

Alan couldn’t help but chuckle, bitter. But Martin was so pleased with himself, laughing at his own remark. His arm winded around Alan’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“Come on, mate, relax. I know you're aching to record something, but it doesn't have to be work and no fun all the time.”

It was so brief that Alan’s mind didn’t instantly register it, and only when Martin pulled away it hit him that a small kiss had just been placed on his forehead. Oh how grateful he was that Martin had turned to Dave and didn’t see him turning so red even his ears burned. Alan lit a cig to calm his heart down, but it was palpitating in his ribcage even after they dragged Fletch to the cab and separated their ways.

 

*******

 

The queue was a noisy mayhem, girls and boys squeaking and chattering. Many hands were shaking, many voices stuttering.

“M-may I plea-please...”

“Take a picture with me? Ha-ha, sure!”

Dave was so pleased with attention, but even more so he was generous with his fans. Girls’ eyes lighting up as he casually hugged them for the pictures, smiles flashing but never outshining his own. Well, he’d got arseholed for good and it wasn’t slowing him down.

“Look, this one’s got something for you,” Alan whispered to Fletch’s ear, nodding to a girl munching on a banana.

Fletch chuckled, taking a sip of his beer.

“Nice, although I’m not that easy. You need more than half a banana to sate me.”

Many of the fans were copying their clothes and even their hairstyles. It took Alan a second to comprehend that a shy blond boy asking him for a picture wasn’t Martin.

“Why not with him?” Alan smiled warmly. Martin was signing _Some Great Reward_ LP for a short-haired lass who’d been staring at him with amorous eyes, holding her hands up to her mouth.

“Can I?” the blond asked, his face lighting up.

“Sure. Hiya, Mr. Gore, get your arse here.”

Whether he pretended not to hear or not, Martin didn’t turn at his call. Smirking at the waiting boy, Alan stood up and, winding his arm around Martin’s waist, pulled him on himself.

“Oh, and who’s a perv here now?”

Martin laughed, clinging to his shoulder. The fan rushed to join in, standing in front of them as his friend held up a camera.

“Smile, Gore, smile,” Alan urged, his own face nearly splitting in half with a wide grin.

The fan’s friend surely wasn’t a great photographer. As he kept asking what button to press and got all the wrong ones, Alan felt a hand sliding along his arm. It was hot in the hall, he was wearing a jacket, a jersey and a tee underneath, but even through all these layers he didn’t fail to distinguish a squeeze Martin gave him.

“Martin,” the blond boy stuttered when the picture was finally taken. “I admire your style so, so much! But I’m... I wish I was as brave as you to wear... something like this.”

Martin’s brow quirked like every other time he was pointed out on dressing like a girl. The leather dress he was wearing tonight was particularly sophisticated.

“Yeah,” he said, scratching his cheek. “Yeah, anything else?”

“I, I really–”

It was annoying. Sometimes Alan wondered whether it was their music that gave them massive popularity or Martin’s scandalous outfits. That or not, he was in a prankish mood.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Alan grinned, putting his elbow on Martin’s rather stiff shoulder. “Mart dresses like this because he’s a freak. He keeps sex slaves in his cellar. Whips them and spanks them while they lick his shoes, covered in oil.”

“Al.”

The boy’s face was blazing red and he hurried to retire. Alan laughed.

“That wasn’t funny. You scared him off.”

“You mean I stole your fan.”

He winked. Martin didn’t look amused. Perhaps it just seemed to Alan, but when he turned back to the line of his fans, he ever so slightly rolled his eyes.

A bunch of journalists at the end of the line didn’t keep waiting to comment on the dress as well. Even Dave, who usually just cracked up at all the comments, frowned at them and asked to get to the next question.

Alan was exhausted at the following after party. There were so many pretty girls, and even Fletch danced with one of them. Martin seemed to share Alan’s sentiment, sitting in the corner with a stony expression and an untouched glass of champagne in his hand.

“You know, I think this... attire really steals the attention from our music,” Alan commented over his drink.

“Oh no, not you too.”

The look of disappointment touched his features. He took a sip and, for the first time that evening, faced Alan drilling him with serious eyes.

“Sit down, will you. No, closer.”

Intrigued, Alan occupied a chair opposite of Martin, holding his heavy gaze.

“I wouldn’t tell this to the interviewers, because they misinterpret every word to their own benefit. Can’t really blame them – they write what sells, milking any ambiguous topic. But we, in our turn, have to watch what we say.”

Martin paused, hands clasped on his lap. His pose was light and there was something peculiarly feminine in it, even if Alan didn’t take the dress into account.

“I like dresses because they’re pretty. I like the feeling you get when you wear a dress. You feel free, liberated. I’d go as far as to call them democratic.”

Alan couldn’t help but snarl.

“But, you see, if I were to perform naked it wouldn’t arise as many questions as dressing like a woman does. What’s bad about it? Nobody can answer this. Every single one of them thinks it’s perverted, that I get off like this.”

“Well, don’t you?”

The frown of his eyebrows deepened, dramatically so. He looked away, as if considering to drop the subject, but recovered and put on a smile.

“All right, you ever heard of _kalokagathia_?”

“Huh?”

“It’s a term from ancient Greece, kalos kagathos, to be precise. You can describe it as an association of virtue and beauty. Exterior makes interior; you look pretty – you’re nice.”

Alan chuckled. He couldn’t argue with the Greeks, not exactly, and eyeing Martin once more he noted the small things that had always been there but now came into sharp focus: the way his fingers tapped on his knuckles, the almost childish shape of his nails stressed with cracked black varnish, the way he held his knees closed together, the arch of his arms, the match of black leather and pearls on his bronzed skin... Alan looked up, meeting his eyes where deep down sizzled a victorious spark.

“Is that why they all wore togas?”

“Either togas or nothing.”

His uneven teeth flashed in the most pleased grin. Involuntarily, Alan licked his dry lips.   

That night he had a hard time falling asleep, mind trekking in every different direction. It was one of those nights when he was tired he couldn’t rest, so when Alan finally closed his eyes, his thoughts whirled in a kaleidoscope of faces and sounds, colorful flashes. Jeri was there, luring him; there was Dave, laughing and dancing upside-down, even Andy made a short appearance in a tall hat and binoculars in his hand. And then there was Martin, in a toga, looking at Alan from above with a patronizing but all-forgiving smile. He ascended from the airy marble steps – for they were in Greece, or at least what Alan’s mind portrayed as Greece, with shadows of grapevine leaves and deep aquamarine of the sea. Alan saw himself wearing a toga as well, and it felt nice, the breeze on his skin. He leaned to a tree trunk and Martin joined in, feeding him grapes from his hand.

“ _Understand me_ ,” Martin pleaded, but Alan couldn’t reply anything with his mouth full of grapes. “ _Understand me, understand me._ ”

Such a sad look he had, Alan’s heart couldn’t take it. He reached his hand to cup Martin’s cheek, but his fingers penetrated through the vision of him, and a single tear rolled down his sad face.

He woke up with a strange feeling. No, he wasn’t confused, he was long since past the dread of wrongfulness. Another thing was to formulate that throbbing, stabbing emotion. Running away from it was an easy solution but temporary, although he could lock himself in the studio for hours as usual – they would go on another leg of the tour only in a couple of weeks. But what he really needed was to talk to someone. Someone he trusted.

Sure, Alan had friends outside the band, but could he really share such an abnormal experience with them? Something like not being able to stop thinking about another man to the point when he was seeing him in his dreams? Of course not. Talking about abnormalities should’ve been done with abnormal people. After a few cigarettes and a shower he dialed Dave.

“Yeah? Yeah, hold on– Hello?”

There was so much background noise – a vacuum cleaner, tableware clinking – that Alan had to move the receiver away, making a face.

“Hiya, Dave, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Eh? Wait a second– Yeah, the blue one will go! Sorry, can you repeat, please?”

He sighed.   

“Dave, it’s me.”

“Al!” He shouted and laughed as if altogether forgetting about whatever had been going on around him. “Mate! It’s so great you called, listen, I have some business to clear up this afternoon, but after that– oh man, can you believe it, Jo said yes!”

“Said yes?”

“Yeah, pal, we’re getting married! We should drink to that, are you free tonight?”

And they drank, and Alan didn't mention a word about having sugary dreams about their bandmate who he wasn't even close to as Dave was going on and on about himself and Jo. The bloke was exalted with the notion of being a husband and, in the near future, a father. Although that idyllic talk didn’t stop him from throwing wicked suggestions.

“We gotta have a nice stag do!” Dave beamed with his well-known devilish smirk.

It didn’t seem like a great idea right away, but a week later, sitting in a shabby hotel room with a jaunty blonde in his lap, a joint in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other, Alan didn’t care to think about it. They’d hit about five bars and collected a few hot lasses who tagged along with great willingness, though none of them seemed to know what band the boys played in.

“So you’re a rock star?” A mischievous brunette leaned to Dave over the coffee table. He was fairly high, wiggling his hips to the shitty music Martin had put on – the bloke cared to bring his own vinyl for the occasion.  

“He’s a stripper,” Alan corrected and earned a slap with Dave’s shirt across the face. He laughed, rolling and thrusting his hips while holding up to a chair to prove Alan's words.

Andy had passed out in a chair, nursing a closed champagne bottle in his sleep. Martin didn’t take long to snatch it and popped it, splashing some foam on a red-haired girl’s skirt.

“Oof, I guess we now have to take it off!” he teased, leaning in to her just enough so their mouths brushed against one another. The girl who came with Fletch looked bored and soon left, having taken a few bottles with her as Alan noticed a bit later.

Dave tucked himself between Alan and the brunette, outspreading his arms on the backrest of the couch.

“Gimme some.” He beckoned and Alan set the joint between his lips. Rolling his eyes in pleasure, Dave let his head fall to the girl’s shoulder.

The music changed into more upbeat and not before long Dave and his girl were dancing, meanwhile Martin already had his hands underneath the redhead’s shirt. 

“I guess I have to go.” The blonde turned at Alan with an apologetic look. “You guys are fun but momma told me to be back before midnight.”

Squeezing her knee in black see-through pantyhose, Alan pulled on his best charming smile.

“Come on, the night is still young.”

“So am I!”

And she was gone, leaving Alan to observe Dave’s outright striptease and Martin’s heated make-out. He missed the point when Dave’s pants came off; he threw the brunette to the couch next to Alan, burying his face between her legs. Well, Alan had his drink and was good, considering to leave when he’d finish it, but the girl turned at him with dark eyes, mouthing a plea to kiss her. So he did.

The music had long since stopped and he could hear slick thrusts and laboured breathing mixed with occasional moans of several people in the room. Alan was behind the girl, taking his  sweet time as Dave was building up the pace from the front, evidently hurried as for his days of freedom would soon come to an end. From time to time his hand would catch Alan’s hip, or his thigh would slap Alan’s skin – no wonder with how tangled they were on both sides of the girl – and Alan grinned at him, watching his open mouth and lidded eyes. Dave laughed, hiding his face in a crook of the girl’s neck; if he was embarrassed he did a good job in concealing it.

And now he had a full view of what was going on in the farther corner of the room. Dim lamp light obscured the details, but the image of fully naked Martin hovering above the girl whose legs closed around his waist was one Alan knew would stick in his mind for long, sleepless nights. Martin was a slow lover as told his hips rocking in shallow thrusts and muscles shifting in his back; he wouldn’t stop kissing her mouth, holding her like something fragile, like she was a girl he really loved. A shot of adrenaline went off in Alan’s head as he heard Martin’s quiet moans over Dave’s overstimulated hissing. He squinted his eyes, focusing on that voice from afar, imagining those were his own legs wrapped around Martin, his hands holding up his face, and he was the one to whom those moans were dedicated to.

He came long before Dave and excused himself to the bathroom, fleeting past the snoring Andy as if running away from an inescapable surge of sin that was about to swallow him whole.

The stinging irony of a very different gathering a few days later would’ve made him scoff if he didn’t know better. All four of them sat around a fancy table in Italian restaurant, each with a respective girlfriend or future-wife. Jeri and Jo were discussing linen and best tile for kitchen with such commitment as if it was a conference on saving Amazon trees. Grainne, who gave off an impression of an intellectual with peculiar sense of humor, was mostly talking to Andy (the only innocent soul from the bachelor party night) and Dave. Martin and his girlfriend who barely spoke any English ate in silence casually interrupted by one or two barked German phrases. All in all, it was an awfully dull party.

“Well, kids are a blessing, but can be a pain in the arse sometimes. Al gets along well with Jason though, right, baby?”

“Right.” He smiled at Jeri but couldn’t miss an amused look Dave gave him across the table, and like a flash before his eyes came Dave’s enraptured grimace as he fucked the brunette and hold onto Alan’s thigh like his life depended on it.

“What about you, Christina? Are you and Martin planning on becoming a family?”

Hearing her name, the girl turned at Martin with confusion in her eyes. Not without annoyance, he translated it to her in monotonous voice. Christina’s face dropped, voice half-lowered and nervous. Martin fiddled with a curl of his hair, looking away while she was talking. Jeri and Jo both drilled him with expectant stares.

“We haven’t thought about it,” Martin stated without looking at his girlfriend. Her cheeks blazed red, she stood up with a brisk _Entschuldigen Sie mich_ and hurried to the direction of the bathroom. 

Of course Jo and Jeri didn't let it slip, rushing to accuse Martin of hurting her feelings. Only Grainne sat there with an amused smile, and after a brief word with Andy retired to the bathroom. She returned triumphant, with a relaxed Christina warbling to her in broken English.

Alan was glad for this awkward gathering to be finally over and hoped that there wouldn’t be another one in the near or far future. In the queue to the cloak room while everyone was busy talking and helping the women to put on their coats, Christina tugged on Alan’s sleeve, beckoning him to bend so she could speak into his ear.

“I glad meeting you finally, Mr. Wilder,” she said with hard, booming ‘r’s. “Marty talk much about you, glad to see his friend.”

To say that took him off guard was nothing. Baffled, he squeezed her shoulder and gave her an endearing smile.

“Thanks. I wonder if this little tosser talked trash behind my back. But don’t mind that, I’m not as grand of an arsehole as your boyfriend could’ve told you.”

“Look who’s the one talking behind people’s backs.” Martin laughed, pulling him into a show-off one-armed hug. He barked something to Christine, she giggled and gave Alan a brief kiss to the cheek.

Three years in the band, Alan still couldn't understand the way Martin's mind worked.

 

*******

 

“But we don’t have another single ready! It’s bloody ridiculous, you know, writing off a song with such great potential just because of one fucking word!”

Daniel ran a hand through his hair, avoiding eye contact. Hell, not just him but the entire room was looking anywhere but Alan: Dave turned away even, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Balling his fists on the console, Alan groaned and rushed to the nearest stash of boxes with wires and other shit, kicking it.

“Calm down, Wilder, will ya!”

“I’m bloody calm! It’s– It’s just– You know! Fucking unfair!”

He walked around, picking up a beer and emptying half of a bottle, even though he wasn't particularly thirsty. Dan seated himself in front of the console, elbowing it with a stern look on his face. Dave leaned to it, fiddling with the keys.

“We all are frustrated, Al,” Fletch spoke over yet another sport magazine he was reading. “No need to raise hell out of it.”

His cold, disinterested voice riled Alan up the wall, and in a moment he crossed the studio, snatching the magazine from him with a wild glare.

“Frustrated? You? I can see your immense sorrow, why, yes! Lounging around is all you’re good for!”

That was it. Alan had never been a scrapper type, yet his nostrils flared and fists shook in rage. He dropped the magazine to the floor, and Fletch’s deadpan gaze followed it. Two hands grasped Alan’s shoulders from behind.

“Al, cut it out,” Dave murmured and pulled him away. “It’s not worth fighting.”

“Perhaps it’s not, for you who acts the goat until we record the–”

An index finger with a long, sharp nail lay on his lips. Dave scowled; his frame wasn’t tense, but he wasn’t smiling either. If anything, he looked disappointed.

“You’d better not say anything you’ll regret,” he said and walked away. Alan breathed hard.

Fletch cleared his throat and bent over the couch, producing his briefcase.

“It’s not very good, but might go as a substitute. I don’t know.”

Looking almost coy, he handed Alan a rugged notebook that looked like it’d been through a lot. The page he opened was full of notes, and as Alan skimmed through it he realized why Martin was their chief songwriter.

“It’s all too _Speak and Spell_ , if not worse,” Alan snorted. “No hard feelings, you just don’t have it in you. Where the fuck is Gore?”

“A good question.” Daniel sighed. “Is anyone up to go look for him? I’ve phoned his flat but nobody’s picking up.”

Dave looked like he was about to volunteer to go, but Alan interrupted him – he needed to take an airing, and badly. He knew pretty much every vegetarian restaurant in this part of Berlin, and it was four – right the time for the slothful tosser to have his fancy gluten-free lunch. But Alan took a route, smoking and mourning the perfectly produced _Fly On The Windscreen_ – his hard work and pride, all for nothing.

Not before long he stumbled into an alfresco cafe adorned with ivy and roses. The bloke in a scandalous black dress was there, so was the girlfriend, spoonfeeding him spinach salad. There was a sizeable bottle of red wine on their table, and Alan poured himself a glass instead of saying hi. The girlfriend’s face dropped.

“So we have mere days to complete a brand new single,” Martin concluded when Alan was done laying out the situation for him. He nodded, shoveling down Martin’s salad which appeared to be not half-bad, or maybe it was Alan’s food neglect speaking.

All business-like, Martin flipped through his notebook (a much neater one than Andy's, with good quality paper and neat curvy lines in fine ink), ponder pinching his eyebrows.

“I think this one will go. Didn’t consider it worthy to be on the album, but, you know, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Of course it was better than Fletch’s, but couldn’t compare to the obscure urgency of _Fly On The Windscreen_. The new sound, eerie, reminding of dark magic, blended with the lyrics in the most seamless manner, creating the style Alan knew would possess the masses. _Shake The Disease_ was their testing the waters, and proved itself efficient (no matter how many journalists still wailed about Depeche Mode’s music being too artsy-craftsy and factitious, they could sod off). But that new sound wasn’t working with the single in progress, and Alan was on his second pack of cigarettes when snoring rolled over the studio.

“Can’t you hear it belongs in _Some Great Reward_? It’s like another _People Are People_ but with less soul.”

“A dancing song all right.” Martin shrugged, cracking open an icy can of beer. “You’re an unbearable perfectionist, you know that, Wilder?”

“I just don’t want us to be yet another one-hit pop group. What’s wrong with this?”

That ever-present disgruntled frown again.

“Nothing. I just think you can use a break from time to time. It’s no good to work so much.”

Before Alan could come up with anything else, his tongue was betraying him.

“Oh yeah, much better fooling around like you do, drink and party and fuck, then come up the last moment to be everyone’s savior. Aren’t you way out of line, mhm, Martin?”

It was strange. He was letting the acid out without looking and could go on and on, but the air around him changed. Alan noticed that Martin had stood up, and his eyes were cold and looking past him, like he didn’t exist in his universe. Saying nothing, he left the studio and wasn’t back in a while.

The following days went under the guise of sleep deprivation and alcohol indulgence, so when they finally got to the video recording, everyone had already been at their limit. The corn field was blazing in heat, so were the blokes. Alan shed off his jacket, readying the camera to distract himself from the discomfort of rolling sweat.

“I’m gonna melt,” Dave whined, fanning himself with a porn magazine. “Can’t we film it naked? Will sure boost the sales.”

“Someone’s already at it,” Fletch commented, nodding at Martin who was shamelessly changing by the nearest bush. Alan aimed the camera at him, but was instantly shoved away with a mighty hand of the protective friend.

“It was a joke! Come on, Mart, don’t tempt our vice-operator!”

Things were going dreadfully awful, even more so when Peter suggested to set most of the video at the night field, continuing to shoot all the way till the sunrise. The band sat around a picnic table with impromptu BBQ, all not a little grumpy.

“I wish we didn’t come here like, ten hours earlier,” Martin complained, taking off his leather jacket. He leaned back in the chair with annoyance written all over his face and bit onto a juicy grilled corn.

“Come on, relax! It’s not half-bad here.” Dave somehow managed to maintain his usual easy-going self, feasting on chicken wings.

Martin made a face, proceeding to bitch about how eating living creatures was old-fashioned and immoral, switching to their shortage of beer and how his back was killing him.

“Shut your face already, will ya, old man?” Alan snapped, even though he shared the sentiment more than completely. And before Martin retorted – his features twisting, fingers tightening around the cob – Dave jumped up, cleaning his hands with a napkin, and placed them on Martin’s shoulders.

“Mate, sit back. You're so stiff, no wonder it hurts.”

And he obeyed, with a puzzled smile on his face. Alan stood up to smoke, circling Andy and watching out of the corner of his eye. Dave’s hands worked on Martin’s nape and slid to his back, kneading his tan skin with gentle but sufficient force. The view of Martin closing his eyes, his mouth in arch of pleasure as he emitted a soft groan, made Alan want to turn away. But he couldn’t, eyes glued to the almost pastoral picture of his friend massaging the shoulders of the man he wasn’t sure how to define to him, both evidently enjoying themselves. And for some petty reason, it was wringing Alan’s gut, making him hot and cold at once.

Finishing the cigarette, he excused himself for a nap in the bus and left the lads where they were. His sleep was restless and he woke up with a sore throat, despite the heat – probably was the fault of the air conditioning in the bus. Alan groaned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. It’d become quite dark outside, the wind disturbed the thick greens in the field. Upon closer look he realised it wasn’t the wind; two silhouettes were frantically moving in the bushes, one of them bent as if in pain. An astray flashlight caught a gleam of pearls, a clump of fair curls, dark lips, hands on bare hips. Alan’s head buzzed with icy shock of the image he couldn’t believe he was seeing: Dave and Martin were out there together, with faces writhed in lust, devouring each other with hungry mouths in the middle of the dusky corn field.

Alan threw his eyes open, panting. The air conditioning was blowing right at his nape. He groaned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. For a long moment he avoided looking out of the window, although it was still early in the afternoon judging by the angle of bronze sunrays piercing the bus cabin. When he finally did, all the three blokes were still sitting at the table, eating and laughing. Dave got up and walked toward the bus.

“I’ll go wake Slick’s lousy arse up!” He shouted to the rest of the crew. In a few moments, he was shaking Alan’s shoulder, humming ‘Rise and shine Mr. Arsehole’ for that Alan had pretended to be asleep. He didn’t feel like facing Dave and seeing that cocky grin on his face right away.

The jealousy he felt was inexplicable. Alan had long since accepted the fact that he was a poor cousin in the band, but through the years he’d learned that Dave was the same at the beginning of Depeche Mode.

“Everything was about them three, ya know,” Dave once went sentimental at a bar. “They knew each other since forever, and I was a rando they picked for the sake of vocals. At first they didn’t even ask my opinion on the songs.”

With Vince having left, Dave had stayed an outsider between two childhood friends whose inside jokes and football obsession he didn’t really understand. That actually made it a lot clearer why Dave had clung to Alan the moment he’d entered the studio.

And Dave was the only one Alan could say he knew pretty well. With them being friends for just several years, he knew that beneath all that energy was a very capricious, sometimes intolerable and childish nature. Not that Dave’s character was weak, quite the opposite; he could lead the crowd just right. But also in all his antics, the moments of fragile vulnerability – after a gig he would sit still with a towel on his head, and there would be a glimpse of bewilderment in his features, and his eyes would turn, giving a peek of an undiscovered abyss  – Alan could see his friend was a rather ductile person and things would end up badly if he fell under the wrong influence.

And not that Martin or his perpetually echoing mate were that wrong influence, no; but Alan felt a potential in Dave he couldn’t fulfill under their compulsive guidance.

“I’m thinking of starting my own band,” Alan confessed as they were drinking in a night club between the gigs at _Black Celebration_ tour. Martin and Fletch had gone dancing, and Dave was sitting next to him, absent-minded and tired.

“You leaving?” he asked with a way too loud chuckle.

Alan cupped his jaw, looking at nothing in particular. He felt a pat on his shoulder, and when he looked up Dave wasn’t smiling. There was subtle dread in his dark eyes.

“Come on, mate, is it that bad? Is it because of Mart?”

A tricky question. Best he could do was to dodge the bullet.

“I didn’t say I’m leaving, at least not yet. But I want to try out something new, something I don’t think fitting for Depeche Mode.” He made a pause, sipping on his drink. “Wanna join me?”

Confusion brushed Dave’s features, but he played it off with laughter and eager back patting.

“So nice of you to make an offer, but I have to speak to my manager first.”

“Dan?”

“Andy.”

Alan snorted. Just as he thought, Dave wasn’t ready for that.

Whether he wanted to explore himself outside of Martin’s reach was indeed a good question. Although Martin’s songwriting talent was evident, his obsession with control was becoming worse and worse. Combined with laziness it didn’t make a nice, credible profile, and Alan wondered how the things would’ve been if the trio stayed as they were after _A Broken Frame_.

Things would be so much easier if Alan didn't feel the constant urge to get under his skin. He often revisited the moment they shared in Berlin the night _Somebody_ was born, when he saw a glimpse of what he was sure was the real Martin Gore, but the chance to look closer was missed. Alan had developed the film and kept the shot hidden in one of the music encyclopedias Jeri had never touched. It was a blurry shot, but so intimate in details: Martin’s coy smile and his attempt to hide his face, leaning into Alan’s shoulder, Alan’s own blush and a wide grin he was masking his embarrassment with, a snippet of messy sheets and their messy hair, all in all it was a picture of lovers they'd never been, never could be. Not that Alan was resentful.

Or was he, his eyes always returning to Martin swaying his hips on the dance floor? He didn’t quite pay attention to what Dave was saying; the bloke had quickly become too talkative as if trying not to let Alan grow apart from him. 

“Oh, I forgot I have a little meeting outside!” Dave stood up, rubbing his hands.

“With whom?”

“You don’t know her.”

“ _Her_? Dave, you’re a married man.”

Dave burst out laughing, splashing his hands in that way that showed he was excited.

“Nah, it’s just... a little business out there. It won’t take long, don't get bored, darling.”

He made that fake smooching gesture they usually mocked each other with, and Alan mirrored him, exclaiming ‘Don’t take long, honey!’ to his disappearing back. He downed his drink, looking around and spotting Martin in the crowd. It wasn’t the best place for a talk like this. Not that Alan was chicken.

He had to have one more drink to soothe his anxiety, and set off pushing through the bodies on the dance floor. Martin was dancing alone, his fully painted face detached in a sort of a drunken slumber, although he was moving quite gracefully.

“Can I get a dance, pretty girl?” Alan smirked, awaiting a glare. It didn’t follow; Martin’s eyelashes fluttered in such a sensual way that made Alan’s throat dry, and with that Mart placed his hands on both of his shoulders, clinging to his chest as if he’d been waiting for somebody to ask him for a dance all night. A little dazed with how easy things were turning out, Alan put tentative hands on Martin’s rolling hips. They were so close, practically pressed into one another by the crowd; the leather of their pants would’ve creaked of friction if it wasn’t for the loud music.

“You okay, Gore?”

A low ‘uh-huh’ was the only answer. Oh, he totally wasn’t okay, he was shitfaced. With a deep inhale, Alan tried to focus on the awful beat in _Like a Virgin_. How ironic was that he was becoming hard.

“You know,” he started, speaking almost right into Martin’s ear, “I’ve got an idea. You may not like it, but I don’t give a shit because it’s time to change something, isn’t it?”

Martin showed no signs of having heard him, but his arms wrapped around Alan’s neck, and they were glued to each other so close Alan could smell his aftershave and sweat, along with everything he’d drunk tonight and hear his heavy breath. And, the worst was, Alan’s half-erection was now poking to Martin’s hipbone through the tight leather.

“I didn’t hear shite, Wilder. Can you repeat?” he whispered into Alan’s ear. Something wet touched his earlobe. Blood shot to Alan’s head, speeding up his heart rate as if he was a racing horse. Of course, down there things weren’t any better.

Somehow, that hot proximity, Martin’s drunkenness and the painfully cheesy song made him brave. With careful subtleness, he guided his hands to the small of Martin’s back, and when there was no protest, slid them just a little lower. His fingers were numb, he couldn’t believe he was actually doing this.

“I was saying,” he resumed, turning his head a little to half-face Martin, “that you’re an arrogant wanker.”

“Uh-huh. Anything new?”

“I want to make my own stuff. In a different band. All by myself.”

Martin leaned away from his shoulder. His face was unreadable up until a vicious grin bloomed on his painted lips.

“So? You want me to stop you? To beg you on my knees?”

That was not exactly a response Alan imagined. He stopped swaying, keeping his hands where they were. Martin didn’t step away either.

“No. Just thought I’d inform you of my plans.”

“I’m not your mom.” Martin chuckled. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave before the end of the tour. You know, the fee.”

Alan didn’t know what he expected, but totally not that all business-like attitude. Truth be told, he didn’t even want to leave, not yet; he was fine with that much work he had in Depeche Mode. But seemingly his role wasn’t all that significant in Martin’s book if the only matter on his mind was money.

As when he was about to throw a tantrum, or at least fantasized about it, someone caught his shoulder from behind.

“Lads, have you seen Dave? I can’t find him anywhere.”

Noticing Fletch, Martin came off Alan in a flash.

“He’s out with a girl, I think.” Alan scratched his brow, not knowing where to place his hands.

“A girl? Did you see her?”

“No, he said he was meeting her outside for some business.”

Fletch frowned, pushing up his glasses. He placed his hands on Alan and Martin’s backs, guiding them away from the crowd and to the table they’d occupied.

“I need to talk to you, mates. Something’s up with Dave,” he said as all three of them sat down. “Don’t you think, Alan? You spend more time with him than I do, but I’ve noticed something strange about him.”

Alan glanced at Martin in search of support, but he looked as much confused.

“Care to explain yourself?”

Fletch rested his chin on top of his clasped hands, eyeing the crowd.

“I didn’t tell you yesterday because it was quite late and I was exhausted after the gig, but I noticed something in the dressing room.”

“Does Gahan bring groupies to the dressing room now?” Martin giggled, a cocktail already in his hand.

“No, not that. That wouldn’t surprise me that much. It’s more about his behavior. He was– Oh, there he is.”

And indeed, Dave was running up to them, smile so wide his face could crack. He plopped down between Martin and Alan, hugging them by the shoulders and making pleased noises.

“Go on,” Alan urged Fletch, who flinched and turned away.

“What are you blokes talking about?”

Dave was grinning, but something in his eyes wasn’t right. He looked directly at Alan’s face but it felt like he was peering through his head.

“Andrew was telling us an interesting story. Care to continue, eh?”

There was too much eagerness in Dave’s movements as he turned at the perplexed Fletch. His hand on Alan’s shoulder wasn’t firm; in fact it was rather jittery. Something was off.

“I’m just a little worried that you’re draining yourself at the gigs,” Fletch said, looking everywhere but in Dave’s eyes. Martin was fast asleep on Dave’s shoulder.

“Who? Me? Draining myself? Nah, you’re joking! I love gigs, they’re fun, the audience is fun and–”

“Dave, have you been taking something?”

Alan shifted to examine his friend closer. He was sweating bullets, smiling drowsily, his laughter was hoarse and forced.

“Fletch, tell me about that behavior part. Was he stoned?”

A response faltered, but Dave’s protests spoke by themselves.

“Mate, what are you talking about! I’m fine! It’s okay!”

Alan forced open Dave’s eyelid. His pupil was blown. Overall it didn’t look like grass; he was wired and very tense as Alan felt his arm and torso.

He suddenly felt detached and stood up to go hit the bar. Why did he care? As if it was his business. They all were just coworkers, and if Dave had a problem, it was his own problem, as well as Alan’s problem was his own problem and not Martin’s. Everyone had their own head on their shoulders.  

 

*******

 

Alan rolled his shoulders and shook off the heavy leather jacket. Now when the Japan leg was over with their Tokyo gig he desperately needed a break. Touring had become a routine, and although he did love observing the audience eager to see them even this far from home, the humdrum of repeating the same setlist over and over again didn’t feel good anymore. More often than not he felt like a machine, hitting the keys for two hours among the haze of fever at packed venues. Dave was becoming more frantic with his performance, even though more professional, but he avoided people after every other gig.

Tonight was no different, except a nice hot bath was a welcoming gift from the classical Japanese style hotel they stayed in. Alan didn’t bother to call Dave to tag along, frankly he was looking forward to some alone time.

The air was pleasantly sultry outside, the deep indigo of the sky sprinkled with stars. Half of the appeal with those baths was that they were outside – a quiet sanctuary in a modern metropolis. The staff of the hotel must’ve shooed all the guests out for the occasion; Alan wondered how much it affected the owner’s income. But when he stepped into the steaming water, he sensed someone else’s presence. 

Only an unmistakable wad of blond curls stood out above the water, which was far from the best way to bathe in such hotness. Alan snorted, diving in slowly – his skin burned with a promise of well-earned relaxation.

“Come on out, moron.”

He picked a can of Yebisu for there were plenty of opened and unopened ones on the ledge, took a few sips. The contrast of temperatures was nice.

“Hey, quit playing around, Gore.”

No reaction followed, and Alan noticed a cluster of bubbles coming out to the surface. He rushed closer, grabbing Martin’s heavy, limp body and pulling him out of the water. There were no signs of consciousness, and Alan felt panic rising in his chest.

“Come on!” He slapped Martin’s cheek, holding him close and shaking. “Don’t you play your games with me!”

His skin was unhealthily red, god knew how long he’d been inside, and Alan didn’t want to assume it was what it looked like. Gathering his courage, he craned Martin’s neck for his head to fall back; he seized his nose and forced his mouth open. He’d never done this on a real person before, last time was on a dummy at school and his performance wasn’t quite successful. Alan braced himself, inhaling a lungful of air and pressing his mouth onto Martin’s.

A few inhales after, Martin coughed, water seeping from his mouth. His eyes cracked open – red, unfocused, with growing dread in them as Alan stared at him and gripped harder onto his shoulder.

“You’ve got a death wish? Idiot!”

Alan lashed away a good distance, shaking with anger, breathing hard. Martin stared in front of himself, hugging his own shoulders with absent-minded aloofness. That was it, Alan had got no more hump to continue bathing, he stood up to leave.

“I didn’t think anyone would come here.”

Martin’s voice was barely audible, trembling. Alan pressed his fingers into his temples. A quiet sob made him turn.

Face hidden in palms, Martin cried louder, beaten with thick tremors. Something was telling Alan it wasn’t for show; he’d never seen Martin like this, having a hard time controlling his emotions in front of someone else, even more so Alan with whom all they did was constant arguing.

His heart sunk. In wide steps, he crossed the distance between them and plopped into the water next to Martin, closing his arms around his trembling form.

“I’m just, you know, so tired?” He spoke through the tears, snuggling to Alan’s chest. “I don’t want any of these. I’ve had enough, I want to go home, Al. It’s... It’s too much!”

Frightened and urgent, he stroked Martin’s hair and peppered the side of his face with small kisses, holding him close, and Martin was clinging harder onto him, nails digging into the skin on Alan’s back. He smoothed the wet curls back, cupping Martin’s face and trying to make him meet his gaze.

“Why do we have to do this?” Martin whispered, looking to the side.

“Listen, mate. I hate it as much as you do, perhaps even more. This schedule can kill a man, and honestly I thought Dave would be the first to break down, have you seen his look after every other gig? It’s ridiculous, we all need a long holiday somewhere in Hawaii.”

Martin’s hands covered Alan’s. He shook his head.

“No. No... It’s all right. It has to be like this. We’ll get used to this, it’s all right, all right.”

Alan grit his teeth, sighed.

“Okay, if you say so. Just, calm down, all right? I’m here. You can tell me anything that bothers you, if you want.”

He hugged Martin with one arm, leaning to the ledge with his back. Exhaustion was getting to him too, his head hurt. The worst was the straining, clenching pain in his chest. Martin rested his head on Alan’s shoulder, his weak hand holding onto Alan’s knee above the surface.

“I feel that I’m losing myself,” he spoke as he stopped crying, in a hoarse and flaccid voice. “Everything is great up until the moment it’s not. It’s like, you know... have you ever felt there’s something inside you, like a hole, and you don’t pay attention to it when others are around you, but once you’re by yourself, it starts eating you, wringing you... Like the ugly part of yourself that you want to push away, but it’s still there, and you can’t run away from it.”

Strange, it was an aching sense of nostalgia for something that never existed; for that night in Berlin when Martin spoke to him about the fear of losing his muse lying on the sheets like a moonlight enigma in the dark.

“I might know the feeling, but sure thing I can tell you that drinking yourself into a drunken stupor won’t help it.”

Martin raised his head, gazing right into his eyes. There was dismay, pain, perhaps judgment, perhaps something else. All in all it was a mesmerizing look. Alan forgot how to breathe.

A shadow of a smile touched Martin's delicate features.

“You want to kiss me, don’t you.”

He felt exposed, which was nothing like naked, and suddenly it hit him. What if he had never been subtle, his longing evident with every look he ever gave Martin, with every pat on the shoulder, with all his playful remarks? Only that, now it wasn’t a game. He was afraid.

“Oh, stop it. You're drunk.”

“Does it make any difference?”

Martin’s fingers brushed his jaw; he glanced at his slightly parted lips. Now that was a chance he’d regret if he didn’t take, but oh how scared he was to cross the border. For Martin it was nothing but a joke, for Alan it was everything. All or nothing. And yet, vapor floated in his head, venom running up his veins. He leaned closer, casting his eyelashes.

Martin’s head lolled back, eyes widening. He dropped his chin, holding up his mouth.

“Fuck I’m going to be sick,” he mumbled before rushing out of the bath, stumbling on his way. Alan jumped up, trying to support him and at least get him out before he threw up on the planking.

“Feeling better now?”        

Face twisting, Martin shook his head, catching Alan’s arm to stand up.

“Like shit. And I have a feeling this isn't over.”

“Come on, let’s get you to your room.”

Having laid Martin on a futon and left, Alan spent a long, wistful hour smoking on a balcony, contemplating what had just happened. He was positive Martin would remember nothing the following morning, but at the same time disappointment stung him, like a little splinter in his chest that hurt with every breath he took.


	4. All I ever wanted, all I ever needed is here, in my arms

_There goes Maradona. Two men on him. He plays the ball, goes on the right side... the genius of the world football. He can pass it to Barruchaga... Always Maradona... Genius, genius, genius! TA TA TA GOOOAAAAAAAL!!! I want to cry! Holy God... long live football! Maradona on an unforgettable run! In the best play of all times!_

Clicking his tongue, Alan switched the channel. Watching reruns had never been fun, so after flipping through a few news programmes he set his sights on _Dune_ which was near the end but he didn't mind.

“Dinner is ready!” Jeri announced from the kitchen. Jason, who’d been sitting in an armchair next to Alan, looking bored to death, set off running for the promise of food. The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” Alan shouted. Who the hell had the bollocks to interfere with a Sunday family dinner?

A little surprise waited for him behind the door: all dressed up, there stood Martin with a bottle of wine in his hands. They were on a break and Alan hadn’t heard from him in weeks. It seemed that Martin had forgotten their little Tokyo incident, or at least pretended he did. But what could get him here? He’d never visited Alan’s home on his own, he once came with Dave but didn’t even stop by.

“Hiya.” Martin smiled, handing him the bottle. “Nice outfit.”

“Oh yeah, much nicer than yours,” Alan commented with a grin, motioning from his stretched grey tee and old sweatpants to Martin’s neat new leather jacket and a pair of jeans that emphasized his legs really well.

Martin took off his shades, propping his elbow to the doorframe.

“Just thought I’d drop by to say hi. Have been bloody bored.”

“Hi, then.” Alan turned to walk back in. “Listen, you coming in or not? Jeri’s gonna be pissed if we don’t join the table immediately.”

Seeing Martin put an moody scowl on Jeri's face, but she quickly recovered and rushed to the kitchen, muttering something about the shortage of salad. Jason plied him with all sorts of questions, about the fans and tours and football and whatnot.

“Why do you dress like a girl? And wear lipstick?”

Jeri shot her son a glare across the table. Alan hid a smirk with a glass of wine, knowing exactly what was coming.

“Because girls love boys who wear lipstick and skirts.” Martin beamed at him.

“You’re lying!”

“No, honest. They may call you names at first, but after a while they become interested.”

Jeri lowered her knife and fork to her plate.

“Can you please stop telling this blasphemy to my son? God forbid he’ll believe you and start wearing dresses.”

“Ew, mom! Never!”

Alan laughed, and Martin joined in. After the dinner, Jason pleaded them to play football with him on the back yard, and Martin looked happy to oblige. Alan got bored pretty soon while those two were still invested in the game, and sat in a lounge with a beer, watching them. Both were laughing and shouting at each other, clearly having fun. Just a little bit, Alan felt a sting of jealousy. He got along well with Jason, but had never seen him enjoying himself so much with another adult. Perhaps Martin was better with kids, or maybe it was just the football.

“Wanna hit a few bars, mate?” Martin asked, plopping down next to him as Jason still demanded a rematch, hitting his arm with his small fists.

“Yeah, sure. Let me get changed into something less fabulous.”

On his way to the bedroom, Alan wondered if he should call Dave but reconsidered the idea. There had to be a reason why Martin came on his own, and Alan would make him spill the beans sooner or later.

They were about to hit the road when Jason ran up to Martin and clung to his leg.

“You’re cool, uncle Mart! Sorry about calling you a girl.”

Martin squatted and ruffled his hair.

“Girls can be cool too, kid.”  

At first Alan was uncertain whether they’d find common ground, but that talk with Jason gave him some ideas. They got some lagers at a quiet pub for starters.

“Are you going to bring up your children in the same fashion?” Alan chuckled into his mug. 

“I haven’t thought of it. You know, it’s usually not the father who decides this. Have you and Jeri thought of having your own kid?”

Alan made a face.

“Of course, a whole kindergarten of lovely little demons. Dunno, mate, she never asked and I never offered. You know, better not stir up a hornet's nest.”

They drank more and switched the bar, then another, and half into his tenth drink Alan couldn’t help but start ranting.

“We can’t afford to fuck up with the next single. I mean, I guess the video for _It’s Called a Heart_ was all right, but mate, I’m kinda sick of those patronizing journalists and shitty magazine writers talking all that shit about our ‘attempts to go gothic’. We’ve never been the same and they still find something to bitch about. The next single has to be something entirely different.”

Martin was shimmying his shoulders to the rhythm of _Sweet Dreams Are Made of This_ , mouthing the lyrics, eyes half-lidded.

“Are you bloody listening to me?”

“Yeah– _some of them want to be aaaabused_ ”

“I think we should go farther. Less lovey-dovey crap, more home truth and hard-hitting arrangements.”

The laughter Martin regarded him with sounded almost uncanny. Confused, Alan stared at his positively drunk mate hollering and fighting with it to speak.

“What?”

“Home truth, isn’t that something? Want me to write about something like _taking good care of the world_?”

Alan tensed at that comment and for a brief moment considered taking it to heart. Instead, he took a deep breath and another sip of whiskey, winding his arm around Martin’s shoulders.

“Quite the opposite, I think we should explore the topics we haven’t. I’m not telling you what to write, I’m just saying that it might be refreshing to adjust the lyrics along with the sound.”

“Adjust?”

Martin drilled him with a look that was so amused it was almost mocking.

“You know, I love writing about sex. Sure, being up-to-date with political issues might be fun, but let me tell you, Wilder: nothing sells as well as sex does. You know what the fans want? They want our pretty faces, wrapped up with confessions, deep fantasies, all that with a sweet topping of melancholy. They want us stripped down to the bone. Although I personally think we could try sounding less gloomy.”

“Gloomy? What are you calling gloomy, twat?”

Alan didn’t mean to be aggressive, and the slap he delivered to Martin’s side was meant to be playful. It came out too hard; Martin laughed but already fired up and was responding with harsh punches to his thigh. They fought under the table until it started to hurt for real, and Alan sprung up, panting.

“Relax, I actually have it all done,” Martin said so calmly that for a moment it seemed to Alan that he’d sobered up. “Let’s cut out that work talk, shall we? I have a good idea where we can go.”

Fairly intrigued, Alan gave in. They took out a bottle of vodka and strolled down the dark streets, arms on each other’s shoulders, taking large burning gulps in turns. Martin was exceptionally talkative, almost preaching.

“You see, love is inherently selfish, because no matter how both parties bust their guts to prove they can die for each other, in the end of the day all the efforts are made for the sake of pleasure. Everyone thinks only of themselves in the eyes of lust.”

Alan was feeling adventurous. Not that they hadn’t spoken about similar matters before, but not pressed so close to each other while drinking from the same bottle.

“I think you’re mistaking love with shallow attraction.”

“All the same. Doesn't matter if you love or want someone, you still desire to own the other person. You want to take her, make her belong to you. The only difference is whether you want to own her just for one night or for the rest of your life.”

Martin stopped and faced him, close enough for them to share breaths. There was that familiar gleam in Martin’s eyes; right, the one from the night ages ago when he danced with Dave at the bar and Alan was burning with what he didn’t know was jealousy. And now Martin was giving that look to him like an invitation to hell.

“We're here.”

He downed the bottle before turning into an alley and disappearing in a narrow way down to the basement storey. There were no neon signs, the door was frayed, but Alan didn’t need a giant banner to guess where they were. Martin made four rhythmical knocks. A tall woman dressed in black opened the door and smiled at Martin like at an old friend.

It was dark inside; ambient noises made Alan itch for a session in the studio. But the session they were up to was far from that; a part of him wanted to turn tail, his ugly, cowardly part. At the same time, he felt like a raging bull in the face of an upcoming rodeo.

All was strange and new. Not that Alan considered himself a conventionalist, but receiving a card with 'Manchester United' written on it, he raised a questioning eyebrow at the tall girl.

“Safe word,” she explained with a smile.

Alan turned at Martin, who was surrounded by two women tying a leather bandana around his face.

“What am I supposed to do with the card?” Alan asked, trying not to sound too disturbed.

“Ah, that. Say what’s written on it when you want them to stop.”

Alan nodded, even though Martin couldn’t see him anymore with that blindfold on. Like an icy burn, he felt an urge to hold onto his arm, and stepped a bit closer just to stay in Martin’s reach. It felt safer that way.

“Is your handsome friend over here a first-timer, Mart?” One of the girls asked, regarding Alan with a wide red-painted smile and offering to take his jacket. He politely refused.

“Well, yeah. Anything special I need to know?”

The briefing he was given was a little overwhelming. The worst was that he started to sober up; all the same the terms and conditions weren’t in his full grasp. The most important thing was that he had the card and could use it anytime, the rest didn’t bother him much. Although when the girl had finished and Alan noticed that Martin was gone, his anxiety rose to an uncomfortable level.

But curiosity was winning. He let the girl put a blindfold on him, and was guided someplace else. There was a metallic door creak. The scent of burning candles permeated the room, though the air was chilly. He was asked to put his hands behind. Something touched his wrists– a rope, he guessed – and then he was tied up and gently pushed down to his knees with his back against something soft and warm.

“Al?”

He hummed in reply, relaxing at Martin’s voice, the only familiar beacon in this world of darkness.

And then it began.

Sharp, rotten-sweet smell, rustle, snaps. He was being touched; the hand felt unnatural and slick. Something narrow hit him like a sting of an insect, sizzling on his skin. He heard sounds of fighting, forcing, then slick and repetitive noises, muffled moans in Martin’s voice. Alan’s heart raced, he felt something plastic touching his lips, parting them with force. A female voice asked him to open his mouth in a cold, imperative tone, which he did, welcoming a phallic object in his mouth. Behind him, Martin shivered and leaned onto his back, groaning with desperation, and it sounded like his mouth was as well blocked. The phallus thrusted into Alan’s mouth, so deep he almost gagged, and commenced fucking his face in a pace that made him cry out in his throat. The keen noises Martin was making were all he could focus on; he pictured him on his knees sucking on that phallus – no, sucking _him_ off, eager, shaking with want and gazing at him from below with pleading and teary eyes. Suddenly Martin’s fingers caught his, clenching his hand with agonizing force that could only mean one thing. He shook, gurgling past the block in his mouth, his spine arched, and then the grip softened.

“Manchester United,” Alan mumbled past the dildo, and right that instant it was withdrawn from his mouth and the blindfold removed.

It was a small and bleak room, with concrete walls and no furniture, lit by candlelight alone. The girl in front of him was topless and wearing latex gloves and a strap-on – that had been in his mouth, he guessed. She squatted and asked him if he was all right, to which he nodded and asked her to untie his hands. When she did, Alan turned around: Martin was still on his knees, panting with saliva dripping from his lips, fixing his jeans with a wet stain on the crotch.

A quarter of an hour later they were smoking in the alley, neither speaking. The stars were bright in the sky and Alan was painfully sober, wishing he hadn’t come there.       

 

*******

 

“Thank you!”

That came out very dry. Dave didn’t even make his usual bow, hurrying backstage. Alan glanced at Martin, who’d been looking back and gave him a small nod. They came to the front, smiling and waving to the roaring crowd, and in a second Fletch joined them, running along the rim of the stage and touching reached out hands, which caused several exceptionally loud screams.

The three of them got down and sped up, Alan in the front with Martin and Fletch following him.

The gig was terrible. Not only Dave skipped ‘pain’ in _Strangelove_ , he also completely messed up the lyrics in _Nothing_ , which was nearly impossible with how unelaborated they were. And his voice sounded so hoarse, his movements restrained even though he danced and jumped around as much as usual.

When they reached the door of the dressing room, Jeri and Jo with little Jack in her arms rushed at them with indecipherable yelling.

“Now, now, calm down.” Alan held his hands up as Jeri shouted into his face. He noticed Jo was crying, with Martin awkwardly trying to pat her back and Fletch taking Jack from her. She turned away and headed to the direction of the bathroom.

“What happened?”

“If he dares to treat Jo this way again, I swear I’ll beat him up!” Jeri yelled and stormed away, taking Jack from Andy before running to the door where Jo had disappeared to. Alan, Martin and Fletch exchanged quick glances before entering the room.

Dave was sitting with a cigarette in his hand and an empty bottle at his feet. He was staring at the ceiling, face blank and his mascara a little smudged at the corners of his eyes. Alan took a seat next to him on the couch, hugging his shoulders with one arm.

“It’s all right,” he said quietly, and Dave squinted. His jaw muscles bulged and he shook his head, sighing.

“What did you do to Jo?” Martin asked, staying a good distance away, arms folded on his chest. “She looked miserable.”

Dave’s eyes darted around and he dropped his head, rubbing his temples.

“Nothing. I– I told her to get the fuck out.”

“Dave.”

“What?” His voice rose. “She bombarded me with bloody questions the moment I came here, I needed a minute–”

“Why don't you tell me what was up with your performance? It was awful.”

Alan stared at Fletch, who stood closer to them than Martin.

“Hey, it’s not the time to–” Alan started, holding onto Dave’s shoulder to soothe him, but Fletch raised a hand, silencing him.

“It’s the perfect timing, actually. I don’t remember us having a gig this bad in years. Dave, you sang like shit, what was that?”

Tense silence covered the dressing room. Alan took a sharp inhale. His blood was racing.

“Listen, Andy, why don’t you sod off? Can’t you see Dave is a bit off shape tonight? It happens, it’s not the end of the–”

“Happens?” Fletch stepped closer to him, glaring. “Yeah, it happens when somebody gets too drunk and high to be on stage. I don’t work my arse off for the audience to be disappointed because of someone else’s mistakes. I can imagine the headlines of tomorrow’s papers saying that Depeche–”

That was it. Alan saw white, and before he could back off or reconsider, his fist was flying to Fletch’s face. He yelped, reeling, his glasses fell to the floor.

“What the fuck, Wilder!”

But it was too late. Grabbing him, Alan knocked Fletch to the ground with a strong shove, and even though he fought back, Alan managed to immobilize him by sitting on his stomach. Fletch threw him off, and they rolled all over each other, exchanging blows and shouting.

He was blind with rage, and not instantly noticed that not only Dave and Martin were trying to get them off each other, almost the entire crew was there.

“You are not the one to point out Dave’s mistakes, you useless scum!” Alan gurgled past the blood in his mouth, and headbutted Fletch so hard he saw sparkles. Under him, Fletch made a face, blood pouring from his twisting mouth.

“Enough!”

Dave caught Alan’s arm and pulled him up, leading him back to the couch.

“What are you doing, idiot?”

“Defending your arse, what else!”

Alan couldn’t calm down, panting. He was offered water which he poured into his bleeding mouth and spit it to the floor.

Across the room, Martin sat Andy down, hugging him and talking to him in whisper. Staff members brought them a towel, Martin asked for a first-aid kit. Fletch hid his face, shoulders shaking, and Martin pulled him onto himself, stroking his hair and neck as he cried on his friend’s shoulder.

Alan lit up a cigarette.

A whole swarm gathered in the room, including Jo with the son and Jeri, which was just wonderful. They could’ve bring a few journalists for the icing on the cake. Someone took Jeri away, Dave walked out with his wife and Alan saw them sharing a brief kiss in front of the door. Well, at least one problem got resolved.

Fletch was missing a tooth and apparently had a rib broken, so he was taken to the hospital. All in all, it was a bloody mess.

A couple of hours later, when the crowd had thinned, Martin lowered onto the couch next to Alan. He looked worn, a frown in his forehead exceptionally deep.

“I’m going to the hospital to look after Andy until Grainne arrives,” he muttered without looking at Alan. “And while I’m still here, let me tell you, Wilder: what you’ve done wasn’t necessary.”

“That twat insulted my friend.”

“That _twat_ is your bandmate. We can’t afford fights between colleagues.”

It appeared not all the adrenaline had burned out in him. Alan turned at Martin, giving him a glare sharper than a knife.

“You know what’s not necessary? Acting all detached and diplomatic when shit like this happens. I know Dave’s singing was crap, but did Fletch have to say that?”

Martin shrugged, still not facing Alan.

“He’s tired. Not everything’s been well for him, you know.” 

“Oh, he’s _tired_. As if all of us aren’t. As if you weren’t the one who almost kicked off on previous tour and cried on my shoulder like a little bitch.”

Martin’s jaw dropped. His eyes widened and very slowly he turned at Alan with such profound disappointment in his gaze that Alan instantly regretted what he said.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” He stood up, rubbing his eyelids, and squatted in front of Martin. Attempted to take his hand, but Martin didn’t let him. He rubbed his face but didn’t manage to wipe frustration from it.

“Oh, fuck off, Wilder.”

Martin stood up and headed to the door, Alan didn’t try to stop him. Alone in the room, he took a deep breath and hit his head hard against the wall, sliding down as the darkness settled in his vision.

It wasn’t just a terrible gig. It was a disaster.

 

*******

 

Fletch wasn't a villain after all. He did make a public apology to Dave, and Alan felt inclined to apologize for his flash of anger as well. Everyone had made up, but it didn’t feel the same anymore. Dave was spending more and more time on his own before and after the gigs, all the time in between he was with his family. Alan found himself missing his jaunty presence whenever they’d go on drinking rampage together. Hell, he even missed making small talk with Dave in their shared hotel rooms.

And then there was an issue with Martin. Since the fight incident he hadn’t spoken to Alan outside of group discussions, and every time they’d end up alone, Martin would leave faster than immediately. Alan didn’t have the guts to say sorry once more, for he felt that he wouldn’t be forgiven. It hadn’t been a slip of a tongue, it was downright betrayal of that fracture of trust Martin put in him that night. He didn’t know what he could do to redeem himself, and the more time had passed, the more he felt a sore, lonesome emotion tearing him apart from within.

But today was a special day, the day for them to conquer America. Daryl had said that the entire Rose Bowl was sold out, and the blokes were more than excited to give their 101th gig in the US. The final one.

The pleasant anxiety morphed into elation as soon as they came on stage, welcomed by a monstrous scream rolling over this enormous venue. Alan’s hands shook a little as he started playing _Behind The Wheel_ , and seeing Dave and Martin smiling at each other as they sang, he realized that the grandeur of this event would go down in history, that now they were a part of something greater, perhaps even ethereal.

In was like a dream, and the next morning when he woke up with fair hangover, Alan had to remind himself that what had happened was real. The peak of their success. He smiled at the sleeping Jeri and lingered in the room, enjoying a quiet moment without cameras or other people’s chatter.

Nobody was in the kitchen when he arrived. It was a sunny June day, so calm that he could still hear the noise of the crowd from yesterday night ringing in his ears.

He didn’t turn at the squeaking door, taking a sip of his coffee, and flinched as a soft hand lay on his nape and slid to his shoulder.

Martin bent to him, taking the cup from his hand and placing it onto the table. Alan was so puzzled he didn’t protest, and froze as Martin wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him in a big, warm hug.

“What’s up with you, Gore?” He couldn’t help but smile, heart melting as Martin pulled away and gave him a big grin. He was shirtless, hair tousled, makeup smudged on his face, but _oh_ how sincerely happy he looked.

Martin poured himself a cup of tea and regarded Alan with a soft, gentle look.

“Nothing. Just glad we did what we did yesterday. And that we’re coming home.”

They smoked without exchanging a word, and it reminded Alan of that morning in Studio Two when Martin was struggling with _Pipeline_. Only now he wasn’t miserable, his eyes shone with radiance rarely present in them, and Alan was so happy to see him this way that he wanted to grab his face and cover it with kisses. It was hard to fight it, so he allowed himself to ruffle Martin’s curls, hand lingering on his cheek.

“What is it?” Martin laughed.

Alan didn’t know what to say, so he just smiled like a tosser, stroking Martin’s cheekbone with a thumb, glad that they were good again. His heart jumped up to his throat as Martin lowered his cup and put his hand on top of Alan’s, squeezing it in a reassuring grasp and Alan couldn’t take his eyes off him, like the world didn’t exist outside this small, gentle moment.

The door opened, letting in Dave, Anton, Jo with Jack, Fletch, Grainne, Daryl, David, Chris – a whole bunch of people with Jeri locking the parade and heading straight to him, separating him from Martin as she sat down between them. Alan’s pulse was so fast it was beating in his ears. A few times he felt Martin’s eyes on him but didn’t dare to look up from his plate.

The post-tour comedown was difficult as never before. Even with his own stuff to produce, Alan craved to get back to the studio; he had ideas, he was looking forward to Martin’s new input and to what he had to say about Alan’s concepts. He knew their next album would be a sensation, with newly regained popularity in the US. But the rest of the band wished to rest, and he spent long days producing Recoil stuff. Sometimes he would come up with an occasional sound fitting more for Depeche Mode and sample it, sometimes he even made quick demos with no lyrics. Not that he didn’t attempt to write some, but nothing seemed fitting for the sound.

He was practically aching for it. And not only because he missed making music. Jeri was getting on his nerves more and more each day, and once he found a birth-control blister in the bathroom cabinet.    

“So,” he asked quietly, sitting up on the edge of the bed as she was doing her nails. “You don’t want my kids?”

She didn’t turn at him, busy putting on red varnish.

“Jeri, how long have we been together?”

“And? Does it mean we have to have a child? We have Jason.”

Alan ran a hand through his hair. Let out a sharp exhale, putting his chin on top of his thumbs.

“You know, I’m about thirty. I love Jason and all, but, well. It would be nice to have my own kids.”

“To never see them while you’re busy touring, like your friend Dave?”

“We can take him – or her – with us. Listen, baby, it’s not that big of a problem. We’ll manage.”

She finally looked at him over her shoulder, and her eyes were full of ice.

“Thank you, but I’m good.”

Well, he tried. Maybe he didn't try hard enough. Every night with her he felt more and more detached, drifting away in his mind. More and more often he saw vivid dreams that the one in bed with him was not her, but the cunning, sensually wringing in the sheets Martin, luring him, calling his name. Alan didn’t know why he wanted him so much, all these years. Perhaps it was the unknown taste of the forbidden fruit. Perhaps the wall Martin had built between them that Alan was only occasionally allowed to peek over, and what he saw was promising to be beautiful and extraordinary. He wanted what he couldn’t get, this yearning had no release and he could only fantasize and languish when nobody was around.

It was stupid, destructive. To the point where when Dave once called him to go out with some girls he accepted the offer without second thought, setting his eyes on a blonde that wasn’t even his type. He always prided himself in liking smart women over the pretty ones, but this one was short, thin, green-eyed and curly-haired, so it was easier to imagine Martin in her place when they lay in the darkness of a hotel room.

Dave looked quite sleepy when they left, and even though he didn’t want to disturb his friend, Alan sat close to him and nuzzled the crook of his neck, feeling the bubble in his chest about to burst.

“What’s wrong?” Dave asked in a thoughtful tone that was unusual for him. Caring, almost.

No, he couldn’t say. He’d die with his secret, or the issue would wear off before he did. So Alan wrapped his arms around his mate, shaking a little, allowing himself a small sniff and a single tear. Let Dave think he felt guilty for cheating. In fact, he didn’t.

“You know, Al,” Dave spoke, stroking his hair, “it’s fine. You don’t have to tell me, I understand. But if you want to, you can. I won’t tell anyone, I’ve got your back, mate.”

He wasn’t going to tell Dave. He’d just vowed to die with it, and yet there he was, spitting all the bile that had gathered in him, mumbling like a helpless teenager about the heartbreak he’d been bearing for years. Dave listened to him, petting his neck, rubbing his shoulders, and when Alan leaned away, he handed him a cigarette and lit it up.

“Well, I’m not an expert, but are you sure that this wall is there? Maybe you’ve been imagining things. He’s a difficult person, we all know it, but...”

He paused, looking at Alan with soft eyes. Brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead.

“I just think it’s better to try and regret than not to try and regret.”

“How do you imagine this? Me asking him out, getting a slap in the face and him never speaking to me again? And we have to work together after this?”

Dave chuckled.

“You already have hard time working together, as I recall. Remember that one time you bickered over _To Have And To Hold_ so loudly that David yelled at you to leave the room?”

Alan smiled at the memory. Indeed, it had been a great scandal.

“If Martin isn’t straightforward it doesn’t mean that you have to beat around the bush too. Hell, Al, I’ve told you the same thing like, what? Five years ago? Six?”

“Nah, it wasn’t the same.”

“Was it? Mate, I figured you had an eye on him right away.”

Blush crept on his face. Shit, he knew he was giving himself away.

It was good to have Dave’s support, although Alan regretted his confession right the next day. Not that Dave would throw him under the bus, he could confide in him. But yet, having shared something as intimate and strange as having feelings for another bloke was at the very least humiliating. He wasn’t some sort of a pervert, after all.

So it wasn’t about perversion, or blunt lust. Not once Alan recalled Martin’s words about the difference between love and lust, or more precisely the lack of such difference. But his case was something entirely different. It was an obsession. A madness.

The return to the studio was like a blessing from god, he could finally drown himself in work and focus on the sound and not on his ridiculous heartache. At least that was what he thought before Martin entered the room. He was dressed almost too simply, just a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, his hair hidden under a cap. Alan let out a breath – what had gotten into him? Martin didn’t even look that attractive – but when the lad beamed at the sight of him and approached with a pat on his shoulder, his world crumbled all over again.

With everyone gathered, Martin pulled out a few tapes from his bag and rubbed his hands.

“Everything’s ready, I need you guys to polish the sound and add samples. I think it’s all good.”

It was a nice demo. Martin’s voice was angelic, but it was yet another ballad they had plenty of. Nothing new or groundbreaking. Alan crossed his arms in ponder.

“You know, how about we speed it up a little bit?”

“Yeah,” Dave broke on. “I like how it sounds, but might be a little boring if I sing it like it is.”

Martin’s brow arched.

“I thought it’d be mine. And, well, I don’t think a song about silence should be fast.”

Already at the controls, Alan raised his arm. He had a brilliant idea.

“Listen, Fletch, you grab a bass. I’ll add the beat... like this. Let’s give it a try, I think we have a gem here. Mart, can you help me with the keyboard? I need you to–”

He went silent, feeling a steel gaze drilling a hole in him. When he turned Martin was glaring at him with belligerence.

“Wilder, didn’t you hear me? I said _Enjoy The Silence_ will be a ballad. Period.”

Alan blinked, taken aback. Dave glanced from him to Martin, looking a little amused.

“Since when are you the boss here, Gore?”

“Since 1982, moron.”

“Oh really? Maybe you’ll go record your own album without my production then? Without Dave’s vocals, eh? You can’t do shit on your own.”

They strolled towards each other like two wild cats. Fletch mumbled ‘here they go again’, bit onto a banana and got back to reading.

“Maybe you will sod off to play in Recoil and stop bothering us with your so-called innovative ideas?” Martin raised his voice, drilling him with eyes full of spite. Alan’s blood boiled, he grabbed him by the collar.

“Let’s get outside,” Alan grumbled.

Dave sprung up, trying to get between them.

“Lads, it’s all right, let’s try out both versions. We’ll figure it out together.”

“No we won’t!” Alan snapped, firming his fist on Martin’s shirt and dragging him to the door. He freed from his hold, nostrils flaring.

“I’m saying we need a nice bass in this song! It’s crucial!”

“You don’t need a bass in a ballad!”

Alan jerked the door open so hard it banged the wall.

“COME HERE, BASTARD!”

He ran outside, hearing Martin’s furious steps following him higher at the staircase. It was beginning to rain, the sky low and leaden, air sultry and heavy. Alan turned into a small alley between the studio and an unpopular bar, where a neon _Bang!_ sign was blinking from blinding pink to blue and back. 

Martin stormed up to him, leaving barely a meter between them.

“Listen up, Gore. I’m sick of your shit. I’m sick of your hogging all the limelight. We’re a band, god damn it, and we have to work together! When was the last time you listened to what Dave has to say? Fletch? Huh? You’re making it all about you, _I want a ballad_ , bollocks! I’m telling you this song will be better with a fast beat and bass!”

Martin grabbed his jacket, pulling him closer.

“How dare you order me around, Mr. Tour Keyboardist?” He hissed and it was like a punch in the balls. “When we took you in, you were nobody, we gave you fame, money, fans, everything! I’m saying I want it to be a ballad, hell, I worked my ass off in the studio all day all night while you blokes were jerking off on a break! And you’re telling me what to do! Fucking prick!”

Alan breathed hard, gripping into Martin’s arms. Before he knew it, he threw him to the ground – there was a loud crack and a shriek, his cap fell off; Martin stood up and rushed at him. They grappled; Martin was stronger than Alan expected and he panted, trying to stay firm on his feet.

“Fuck, I hate how bitchy you are! Fucking twat! I hate you!” He spat into Martin’s face and, with a roar, threw him to the wall.

“I hate you so much!” he cried, dashing to the groaning Martin, grabbed his face, and kissed him, hard, desperate, shoving his tongue deep into his mouth, tasting blood. Martin struggled in his hold, trying to push him away, but Alan only firmed the kiss, blocking his arms with his elbows, shoving his thigh between Martin’s legs, spreading them wider. Alan didn’t breathe, devouring his mouth, ready to die right this moment because nothing else in the world mattered. Martin stopped fighting, kissing back with keen eagerness; their teeth clinked and Alan could gag on his tongue, but that was what he wanted – to get all of it, at once. Martin’s hands were raking his shirt up, something tore apart, a few buttons rolling to the ground. With trembling hands, Alan grabbed his arse and ground against him, breaking away from his mouth only to sink his teeth into Martin’s exposed neck.

“I hate you too,” Martin wheezed, now that he had a chance to. “I hate you so, so much!”

He panted, shifting his hands lower and fiddling with Alan’s belt, unbuckling it and unzipping the fly on his jeans. Alan tugged the elastic of his shorts along with his briefs down – he was hard, thick, hot – and pressed their cocks together; Martin moaned into his mouth and attacked him with another deep, bone-rattling kiss. Their hands were all over one another, hips thrusting and rolling in the agony of the heat as the cold rain sizzled on their skin. In the agony that had been building up through the slow, hollow years of fear and cowardice. Alan broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to Martin’s shoulder, tugging on his soft hair, feeling a tender touch on his jaw, neck, pectoral, side, hip; he grit his teeth and came into his fist, tears rolling from his eyes as he continued to stroke Martin’s cock and listening to his gentle, whispered right into his ear moans.

He finished and they slid down the wall without breaking apart. Alan’s vision was blurry with tears and he saw the wet asphalt going from pink to blue. He killed the sob in his throat. Martin’s fingers played with his hair. He sighed shakily.

“I hate you,” Alan whispered, bringing his clean hand to his mouth. “I hate you.”

Martin brought his face up, gazing at him with sorrow so profound it broke Alan’s heart.

“I know, Al. I know.”

Alan clutched him in a hug, crying and wishing he had never come to the audition in 1982.

 


End file.
